55. 


TRES 


55. 


By  N.  L.   sS 


'''>-  *£•  SIGHTS  &£&£££&&. 


Bancroft  Library 


PREFACE. 


*'  Je    m*  amuse  pour   vous  am  user" 

N.  L.  S. 


VILLA  ZORAYDA 

ST.  AUGUSTINE,  FLA. 


"IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN." 

CHAPTER  I. 

( (    A   S  the  tiny  mote  floating  in  the   sunbeam,  does  its  part 

1\  toward  maintaining  the  balance  of  the  Universe,  so  the 
influence  of  our  lives,  despite  their  individual  insignificance, 
can  not  be  wholly  lost." 

Cyril  Winthrop  had  but  to  close  her  eyes  on  the  luxurious 
disorder  of  her  room,  with  its  countless  knicknacks  and  costly 
appointments,  to  imagine  herself  again  listening  to  those  words 
in  the  dimly  lit  Cathedral.  She  saw  the  drooping,  pathetic 
face  of  the  Christ  on  the  high  altar ;  the  twinkling  lights 
below,  indistinct  and  blurred  by  the  clouds  of  incense  floating 
in  wreaths  about  the  chancel ;  the  absorbed  attention  of  the 
congregation,  white  and  black,  and  the  impassioned  face  of 
the  preacher.  The  remembrance  of  that  face  disturbed  her  — 
its  terrible  earnestness  had  shaken  her  habitual  complacency. 

"The  influence  of  our  lives  is  never  lost."  Was  it  true? 
Was  her  selfish  life  to  mar  other  lives  after  she  had  passed 
away?  "He,  at  least,  believes  it,"  she  thought.  "It  is  all  real 
to  him — our  eternal  damnation  or  everlasting  bliss  and — he 
cares !" 

The  previous  evening  she  had  been  sitting  in  the  rotunda  of 


10  St.   Augustine  Remnants. 

the  hotel,  among  a  number  of  other  frost-bitten  Northerners  who 
had  fled  to  St.  Augustine  for  a  thaw  under  the  orange  blos 
soms.  The  season's  gaieties  had  somewhat  palled  upon  her, 
and  her  usually  radiant  spirits  were  rather  depressed.  John 
Nesbitt  coming  in  from  his  after  dinner  cigar,  had  suggested 
that  they  should  hear  the  midnight  mass  at  the  Cathedral.  It 
was  Good  Friday,  and  the  services  were  to  be  especially  im 
pressive. 

1  'Father  Gaston  is  to  preach,"  he  said,  "and  he  is  really 
unusual.  He  is  just  over  from  Rome,  and  has  taken  this  as 
his  first  pastorate.  They  say  he  is  as  handsome  as  Antinous, 
as  eloquent  as  Demosthenes,  and  as  spiritually  exalted  as 
Savonarola.  Could  you  ask  more?" 

She  went,  much  as  she  would  to  the  play,  with  the  result 
that  she,  the  cynic  of  twenty-two,  lay  here  tossing  to  and  fro 
on  her  comfortable  bed,  with  the  closing  sentence  of  the  ser 
mon  ringing  in  her  ears. 

"If  I  could  but  know  whether  he  is  right  and  all  my  old 
ideas  wrong!  Was  his  mind  simply  trained  to  accept  it  all, 
or  is  his  faith  a  natural  attribute?" 

She  was  conscious  of  a  curious  mental  uneasiness.  She  rose 
and  went  to  the  window.  The  soft,  moist  air  swayed  the 
curtains  inward,  and  stirred  her  hair  as  she  stood  there.  The 
light  from  the  low-hanging  moon  of  the  Southern  skies  rippled 
through  the  lace  draperies,  and  swept  over  her  into  the  room, 


It  Might  Have  Been.  11 

glinting  here  and  there  on  the  polished  surface  of  the  silver 
knicknacks  of  her  dressing-table,  revealing  distinctly  the  luxu 
rious  furnishings  of  the  room. 

Cyril  Winthrop  had  been  compared  by  a  friend  from  Boston 
to  the  Egyptian  obelisk  in  Central  Park  with  its  coating  of 
parafine.  "Like  it,  you  are  apparently  impervious  to  both  the 
burnings  and  frosts  of  life,  with  this  effective  though  intangi 
ble  mask,"  he  had  said. 

She  recalled  this  dubious  compliment  as  she  leaned  against 
the  window.  "Am  I  really  feeling  this,  or  am  I  simply  relish 
ing  the  artistic  side  of  circumstances?  How  I  wish  I  could 
look  over  and  beyond  myself!  He  might  help  me  to  do  it :  in 
fact,  he  did  make  me  forget  myself  while  he  spoke.  I  should 
like  to  meet  the  man.  He  is  original,  clever,  and  has  the 
novelty  of  never  having  known  women.  I  wonder  what  he 
thinks  of  us  !"  With  a  sudden  thought,  she  stood  erect  and 
motionless. 

"I  have  it,"  she  said,  half  audibly.  "I  will  make  this  inter 
esting  priest's  acquaintance." 

She  searched  about  in  the  dimness,  and  found  her  pen,  ink 
and  paper.  These  she  brought  to  the  window,  and  kneeling 
down  placed  them  on  the  window  sill. 

"Heavens!"  she  thought:  "if  Mamma  should  awaken  and 
come  in,  to  find  me  writing  to  an  unknown  man,  and  he  a 
priest !  Yet  there  can  be  no  real  harm  in  it. 7 


12  St.   Augustine  Remnants. 

With  one  hand  gathering  back  her  loosened  hair,  she  held 
the  pen  poised  over  the  crested  sheet. 

FATHER  GASTON  : — 

"Pardon  the  liberty  taken  by  a  stranger  sojourning  here  for  the 
Winter  months.  Chancing  to  hear  your  sermon  last  evening  I  was 
impressed  bv  some  of  the  points.  If  you  could  find  time  to  call,  it 
would  be  agreeable,  and  no  doubt  profitable  to  talk  further  with  you 
upon  the  subject  of  your  sermon. 

Sincerely  yours, 
Hotel  Ponce  de  Leon.  CYRIL    WINTHROP. 

"There  !  it  is  done.  But  it  is  certainly  somewhat  audacious. 
Yet  he  won't  know  whether  it  is  from  a  man  or  woman  till  he 
comes,  for  the  name  tells  nothing,  and  John  says  my  hand 
writing  is  masculine  enough  for  a  Wall  Street  broker." 

The  note,  folded  and  sealed,  was  placed  conspicuously  upon 
her  pin-cushion  with  a  complacent  smile.  Then  with  a  yawn, 
the  girl  sought  her  pillow,  and  was  soon  oblivious  of  theology 
and  all  else. 

She  had  left  New  York  reluctantly,  for  she  loved  her  bril 
liant  existence  there,  much  as  the  gamin  loves  the  blaze  of  the 
street  procession  with  its  prancing  and  feathers,  and  all  the 
other  excitements  of  his  irresponsible  existence.  Her  delicate 
beauty  concealed  the  strength  and  force  which  was  the  under 
current  of  her  character.  Her  sensitive,  mobile  face  appeared 
the  mirror  of  every  thought,  but  alas  !  for  those  unlucky  wights 


It  Mi g Jit   Have  Been.  13 

who  so  regarded  her.  Superficially,  she  was  candor  itself. 
Few  detected  the  shrewd  and  analytical  spirit  that  lay  ambushed 
behind  that  "thoroughbred"  frankness. 

It  was  an  oft-repeated  joke  of  her  mother's,  that  when  a 
child  she  was  first  taught  that  a-b  spelled  ab  she  asked,  "How 
do  you  know  that  it  does?"  "Because  it  does  —  I  was  told  so 
when  I  was  your  age,"  her  governess  replied,  rather  staggered. 
"But  how  did  your  teacher  know  and  her  teacher  know?"  she 
asked  again,  and  again,  and  refused  to  accept  the  proposition. 
She  required  proof  beyond  question  as  to  all  people  and  all 
things  —  without  it  she  gave  neither  her  confidence  nor  belief. 
Some  people  thought  her  hard,  and  it  was  sometimes  now  a 
question  with  herself.  She  certainly  lacked  sensitiveness,  yet 
there  were  times  when  sympathy  of  the  most  tender  sort 
proved  a  heart  far  from  indifferent.  Once,  while  driving  in 
the  Park,  she  noticed  a  poor  woman  with  young  children  try 
ing  to  cross  the  crowded  road,  while  the  policeman  stood  bv, 
wholly  blind  to  her  frightened  efforts.  With  a  bound  Cyril 
was  out  of  the  carriage,  and  with  eyes  aflame  guided  the 
woman  across,  and  then  gave  the  startled  guardian  of  pedes 
trians  a  lecture  which  left  him  half  indignant  but  wholly  re 
pentant. 

Her  mother,  a  nervous  woman  of  amiable  but  rather  feeble 
proclivities,  regarded  her  daughter  much  as  a  brilliant  bird  of 
another  species  than  her  own.  Her  pride  in  Cyril's  beauty. 


14  St.   Augustine  Remnants. 

artistic  gowns  and  social  success,  was  the  mainspring  of  her 
existence.  She  was  emotionally  religious,  and  extremely  high 
church  in  her  views,  and  spent  her  leisure  hours  in  embroider 
ing  elaborated  stoles  and  altar  cloths.  Cyril  allowed  her  to 
do  as  she  liked,  but  when,  during  a  Lent  of  special  devotion, 
her  mother  with  several  other  ladies  of  high  degree,  relieved 
their  over-burdened  consciences  by  scrubbing  the  floor  of  their 
church,  Cyril  thought  things  had  gone  far  enough.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  effect  of  such  affectations,  combined  with  the  girl's 
natural  type  of  mind,  that  left  her  with  so  limited  a  religious 
belief.  For  the  clergy,  as  a  class,  she  professed  but  little  ad 
miration.  When  on  Sunday  she  joined  other  respectable 
members  of  society  in  their  luxurious  church  on  Fifth  Avenue, 
and  the  sleek,  well  kept  rector  rose  to  dilate  on  the  responsi 
bility  of  saving  human  souls,  the  girl  queried — "Does  he  really 
mean  all  that?  Can  he  believe  that  one  single  soul  in  this 
vast  congregation  is  in  danger  of  Hell  fire,  and  after  his  elo 
quent  peroration  go  out  smiling  and  contented  to  his  comfort 
able  dinner?  Either  he  does  not  believe  what  he  preaches,  or 
else  he  is  without  a  spark  of  love  for  his  fellowmen." 

And  was  not  the  whole  system  one  of  selfishness?  If  she 
was  good,  she  was  told  she  would  receive  as  a  reward  the 
sugarplum.  If  she  was  not  good,  then  punishment  was  to 
follow.  And  yet  she  was  so  made  as  to  find  all  wrong  things 
attractive,  and  all  good  things  irksome.  In  fact  she  generally 
found  it  more  pleasant  to  serve  Mammon,  and  she  did  so. 


//  Might  PTave  Been.  15 

John  Nesbitt,  whom  she  was  to  marry  the  coming  June, 
represented  in  great  part,  the  Mammon  which  she  served. 
The  son  of  wealthy  parents,  he  had  not  joined  the  great  army 
of  money-seekers,  but  spent  several  years  in  Europe,  where  he 
picked  up  several  languages,  a  slightly  foreign  manner,  and 
some  very  good  bric-a-brac.  A  big,  kind-hearted  fellow, 
essentially  a  Club  man,  he  troubled  himself  very  little  about 
things  beyond  his  own  horizon.  He  adored  Cyril  as  a  being 
far  above  him  mentally,  and  since  their  engagement  he  had 
given  up  any  hopes  of  understanding  what  he  called  her 
"vagaries." 

She  dominated  him  in  every  particular  and  had  convinced 
herself  she  loved  him.  He  had  an  attractive  background  of 
yachts,  fine  horses  and  houses  in  New  York  and  London,  and 
this  prospective  brilliancy  surrounded  him  as  a  golden  halo. 
All  this  was  to  be  Cyril's  some  day,  but  occasionally,  in  spite 
of  the  envy  of  her  friends,  she  felt  a  certain  contempt  for  the 
sort  of  woman  that  circumstances  were  to  make  her. 

"At  forty,  I  shall  be  a  cool-headed,  hard  woman  of  the 
world,"  she  often  thought.  "My  better  impulses  will  die  a 
natural  death,  and  I  shall  not  even  regret  their  loss.  I  shall  be 
a  giver  of  fine  dinners  and  the  owner  of  a  bad  digestion — shall 
have  contempt  for  the  world  I  live  in,  yet  be  a  slave  to  its 
opinion,  and  shall  die  a  joyless  old  woman." 


CHAPTER  II. 

CATHER  GASTON  stood  at  the  door  of  the  post-office  on 
St.  George  St.,  with  his  unopehed  letters  in  his  hand,  hesi 
tating.  All  through  the  long,  hot  day,  he  had  been  going  from 
one  end  of  the  town  to  the  other,  visiting  his  flock,  nearly  all 
strangers  to  him.  He  had  adapted  himself  to  so  many  differ 
ent  individualities,  and  interested  himself  in  so  many  divergent 
channels  of  the  lives  about  him,  that  he  felt  a  little  dazed  and 
tired. 

His  great  batch  of  letters,  some  from  his  colleagues  far  away 
in  Rome,  tempted  him  to  a  quiet  hour  before  the  Vesper  ser 
vice  ;  but  he  crossed  to  his  house  on  the  corner  of  the  Plaza 
and  gave  them  to  a  lad  in  a  long,  black  soutane,  who  was 
watering  the  flowers.  Then,  with  his  long,  swinging 
stride  the  priest  went  rapidly  up  King  Street  to  the  Ponce 
de  Leon,  for  he  had  the  day  before  received  a  note  from  some 
one  who  might  be  leaving. 

Under  the  entrance  he  paused,  and  drew  from  his  wallet  a 
square  envelope,  addressed  in  a  bold  masculine  hand.  He 
glanced  at  the  signature,  then  passed  on  through  the  court, 
with  its  group  of  men  and  women  scattered  among  the  palms, 
through  the  rotunda,  to  the  desk.  More  than  one  head  turned 
as  he  passed,  and  a  bell-boy  nudging  his  companion,  asked — 


//  Might  Have  Been.  17 

"Who's  dat  stunner  any  how?  He's  like  de  bery  king 
hisself?" 

The  smiling  clerk  forgot  to  twirl  his  moustache  as  he  looked 
into  the  grave,  beautiful  face  of  the  priest. 

'•Will  you  kindly  send  my  card  to  Mr.  Cyril  Winthrop  ?" 

The  clerk  turned  several  leaves  of  the  register  before  him. 

"There  is  no  Mr.  Winthrop  ^stopping  here,"  he  replied, 
"but  a  Miss  Cyril  Winthrop  of  New  York,  is  here." 

Father  Gaston  looked  puzzled  and  opened  the  note  again. 

"Well,  she  may,  perhaps,  be  the  person."  Then  after  a 
little  pause.  "You  may  send  up  the  card." 

The  clerk  touched  a  bell.  "Room  248,  and  the  gentleman 
is  waiting." 

The  boy  returned  in  a  moment.  "Dis  way,  sar,  if  you 
please,  sar,  one  flight  up." 

With  an  impish  grin  thrown  to  his  companions,  he  led  the 
way  up  the  marble  steps,  and  along  the  thickly  carpeted  hall, 
pausing  before  a  white-paneled  door.  He  knocked.  Through 
the  open  transom  came  only  a  murmur  of  voices  and  tinkling 
as  of  glass.  A  louder  knock  brought  a  clear  "Come  in  !" 
The  door  opened.  A  confused  crowd  of  youthful  faces  met 
Father  Gaston's  eyes.  From  the  corner  of  the  room  a  tall, 
girlish  figure  advanced  with  outstretched  hand. 

"Father  Gaston,  is  it  not?"  she  asked.  "I  am  the  writer  of 
the  note,  and  thank  you  so  much  for  coming." 

3 


18  St.   Augustine  Remnants. 

She  led  him  to  a  divan  before  which  stood  the  samovar  and, 
drawing  aside  the  delicate  draperies,  motioned  him  to  the  va 
cant  seat  beside  her.  The  ripple  of  voices  and  laughter  about 
them  dropped  sensibly  to  a  lower  key.  John  Nesbitt  crossed  to 
Mrs.  Winthrop,  who  with  lorgnette  raised  was  coolly  survey 
ing  the  stranger. 

"Who  is  he?"  she  asked,  with  suppressed  curiosity.  "Isn't 
he  superb?" 

John  smiled  and  leaned  toward  her. 

"He  is  Father  Gaston  of  whom  everyone  is  talking,  but  only 
Heaven  knows  how  Cyril  got  him  to  five  o'clock  tea.  The 
man  is  just  out  of  a  Roman  College,  and  presumably  knows 
no  more  of  social  life  than  a  monk  of  the  middle  ages.  But 
Cyril  has  captured  the  lion  in  some  mysterious  way.  Just  like 
her — but  odd  she  didn't  mention  it." 

Meanwhile  Father  Gaston,  having  placed  his  broad-brimmed 
hat  on  the  floor  beside  him,  was  endeavoring  to  adapt  himself 
to  circumstances  as  best  he  could. 

"One  or  two  lumps?"  asked  Cyril  with  utmost  ease,  sugar 
tongs  poised  over  his  cup,  and  a  glance  at  his  grave  face,  which 
she  was  glad  showed  no  sign  of  embarrassment  or  regret.  "No 
doubt  he  is  inwardly  praying  that  his  eyes  may  be  turned  away 
from  beholding  vanity,"  she  thought. 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come,"  she  said,  "for  I  under 
stand  you  have  recently  settled  here,  and  must  necessarily  have 
much  to  occupy  your  time." 


It  Might  Have   Been.  19 

"It  gives  me  great  pleasure,"  he  replied,  with  a  bright  smile, 
"and  still  more  to  find  that  my  sermons  can  reach  beyond  my 
parish.  I  really  did  not  know  it  was  a  lady  who  asked  me  to 
call.  But,"  he  added,  "I  have  sisters  and  I  know  the  value  of 
woman's  work  in  the  world,  and  shall  be  most  happy  to  be 
of  any  assistance  to  Miss  Winthrop." 

Cyril  found  herself  coloring  at  being  taken  for  a  "worker." 

"Oh  !  I  beg  you  to  understand  that  I  am  not  a  Roman 
Catholic  :  indeed  I  am  not  a  very  good  Protestant.  I  was  sim 
ply  impressed  strongly  by  your  views  of  life,  and  I  very  impul 
sively  resolved  to  ask  you  to  help  me  to  accomplish  some  little 
good  while  here  this  Winter.  We  have  come  here  to  rest  from 
our  gaieties  in  New  York,  but  what  with  the  out-door  life  all 
day,  and  dancing  every  night,  one  is  more  tired  than  before. 
It  was  your  sermon  of  Good-Friday  which  made  me  feel  still 
more  tired  of  it  all.  She  paused  and  glanced  at  Father  Gas- 
ton's  strong  face. 

"I  am  only  too  glad  Miss  Winthrop,  if  any  words  of  mine 
helped  you  to  realize  the  importance  of  earnest  living.  Believe 
me,  it  is  that  which  makes  noble  men  and  women.  There 
are  many  things  to  be  done  here  in  St.  Augustine,  which  I 
feel  sure  you  could  do  ably,  and  which  would  benefit  you  as 
well  as  others." 

Cyril,  thinking  no  more  of  the  incongruous  surroundings, 
leaned  forward,  her  eyes  brilliant  and  eager.  "Only  tell  me 


20  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

what,"  she  said,  "and  I'll  try.  You  don't  know  how  glad  I 
should  be.  So  far,  my  life  hasn't  been  much  to  boast  of:  the 
world  would  get  on  quite  as  well  without  me." 

"If  you  are  really  in  want  of  something  to  do,"  Father  Gas- 
ton  said  with  candid  interest,  "I  can  tell  you  now  of  a  young 
girl,  no  older  than  yourself  but  poor,  terribly  poor,  who  is  lying 
ill  in  such  poverty  as  you  doubtless  never  dreamed  of.  She  is 
one  of  a  family  of  poor  whites — "Crackers,"  they  are  called 
here,  who  live  in  a  shanty  by  the  San  Sebastian  river.  The 
girl,  Hannah  Neal,  is  suffering  for  the  bare  necessities,  and  if 
you  could  see  and  aid  her,  I  should  be  very  grateful." 

Cyril  assented  eagerly  and  while  getting  explicit  directions, 
her  mother  approached.  Cyril  presented  Father  Gaston  and 
left  them  together  in  animated  conversation.  He  observed  the 
girl  as  she  moved  about  the  room.  She  is  as  full  of  force  as  a 
race-horse,"  he  thought.  Her  frankness  and  her  course  in  seek 
ing  his  help  puzzled  him.  Women  he  knew  were  full  of 
impulses  and  difficult  to  understand,  but  this  girl's  face  was 
noble  beneath  her  apparent  flippancy ;  surely  her  nature  must 
be  so  too.  Her  strong  individuality  impressed  him,  and  Pascal's 
trite  saying  came  into  his  mind  "  Si  le  nez  de  Cleopafre  eut  plus 
ete,  ou  plus  court,  pcut&tre  toute  la  surface  de  la  terre  aurait 
changee.  "  Women  were  certainly  a  power  in  the  world. 

She  came  back  to  him. 

"I  want  to  present  my  friend  Mr.  Nesbitt,"  she  said  gaily, 


//  Might  Have  Been.  21 

and  while  they  talked,  stood  silently  by,  taking  mental 
measurement  of  the  two  men.  When  the  priest  took  leave, 
with  the  savoir  faire  of  an  accomplished  man  of  the  world, 
she  listened  to  John  Nesbitt's  good-natured  opinion,  "Father 
Gaston  wras  an  all  round  jolly  chap,"  with  an  expression  that 
mystified  him.  At  dinner  also,  he  found  his  usually  gay  fian- 
c£e  somewhat  reflective  and  subdued.  Afterward,  while  saun 
tering  through  the  loggias  he  rallied  her  on  her  mood.  She 
roused  herself,  obviously  with  an  effort. 

"You  are  satisfied  with  me  just  as  I  am — as  I  am,  are  you 
not?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course,  my  Cyril,"  he  replied.  "I  would  not  have  you 
different  in  any  way.  You  are  just  the  prettiest,  best  dressed 
girl  going  and  " — 

"But,"  she  interrupted,  "for  all  that  I'm  going  to  try  to  be 
different.  I  don't  like  being  merely  pretty  and  well  dressed." 

"Now  don't  frighten  me,  my  dear  girl,"  he  said  laughingly. 
"I  shall  be  afraid  of  seeing  a  halo  shine  around  your  head  if 
you  are  going  to  be  more  perfect." 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  ONE  story,  white-washed  shanty,  built  on  four  posts,  on 
the  muddy  shore  of  the  San  Sebastian.  The  waters  flowed 
at  full  tide  almost  to  the  door,  and  at  every  ebb  left  cypress  shav 
ings  and  other  refuse  from  the  mills  farther  up  the  river. 
Planks  were  laid  from  the  road  to  the  entrance,  over  which 
Cyril  Winthrop  and  her  maid  found  their  way  with  some  diffi 
culty.  The  air  was  redolent  of  noxious  odors  from  the  gas 
works  near  by  and  insect  life  was  evident,  in  all  the  activity  of 
a  Southern  latitude.  After  knocking  without  answer,  they 
took  advantage  of  the  half  opened  door,  and  entered.  There 
was  no  one  to  be  seen  in  this  room,  half  chamber  and  half 
kitchen.  The  floor,  through  the  cracks  of  which  the  moist 
ground  below  was  visible,  had  apparently  never  known  a 
broom,  and  upon  a  small  stove  a  kettle  sent  up  a  thin  curl  of 
steam.  Cyril  passed  on  to  a  door  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
room  and  upon  opening  it,  an  exclamation  of  astonishment  and 
pity  escaped  her.  On  a  cot,  covered  with  a  wretched,  patched 
quilt,  lay  a  girl,  her  pallid  face  turned  to  the  wall.  Tangled 
curls  lay  in  matted  rings  about  her  forehead,  and  one  hand 
held  a  small  brown,  wooden  crucifix.  The  sun  plaved  through 
the  window,  from  the  sill  of  which  a  chicken  took  flight  at 


//  Might  Have  Been.  23 

their  entrance.  Cyril  crossed  to  the  motionless  girl  and  softly 
touched  her  claw-like  hand.  A  pair  of  sunken  brown  eyes 
opened  and  stared  as  though  at  a  vision. 

"Father  Gaston  has  sent  me  to  you,"  she  said,  UI  am  to  try 
and  make  you  more  comfortable.  Don't  talk  now — wait  till  I 
arrange  things  a  little."  And  at  the  mention  of  the  priest's 
name  came  an  expression  of  satisfaction  into  the  wan  face. 
"Dobbs,"  turning  to  her  maid,  standing  horrified  in  the  door 
way,  "bring  the  basket.  Now  go  and  see  if  you  can  find  some 
clean,  warm  water." 

A  fever  of  energy  possessed  her.  Out  of  the  basket  she 
brought  a  bottle  of  wine,  some  biscuits  and  a  change  of  linen. 
Dobbs  returned  with  water,  and  together  they  worked  over  the 
girl  who  submitted  to  them  with  dull,  passive  eyes,  and  smiled 
faintly,  when  clean  and  refreshed  she  was  laid  back  on  her  pil 
low.  Then  Dobbs  was  sent  to  the  nearest  shop  for  dark  cam 
bric  and  tacks.  Cyril  drew  a  chair  to  the  bed  and  sat  down. 
The  sick  girl  looked  with  silent  wonder  at  the  beautiful,  pitying 
face  bent  over  her. 

"Now  tell  me  something  about  yourself,  if  you  are  able," 
she  said.  "Why  are  you  here  alone?" 

Cyril  had  to  bend  lower  to  catch  the  whispered  answer. 

"Father  has  to  go  off  to  work  every  day.  The  colored  wo 
man  next  door  comes  in  now  and  then,  but  she  has  her  own 
family  to  look  after." 


24  vS1/.  Augustine  Remnants. 

"How  long  have  you  been  ill,  Hannah?" 

"Two  months  Miss.  It's  slow  fever.  I  wouldn't  mind  so 
much  if  I  could  sleep  more." 

"Poor  child  !"  said  Cyril.  "No  wonder  with  this  heat  and 
flies.  We'll  remedy  all  that." 

Presently  the  girl  asked  timidly,  "Did  you  say  Father  Gas- 
ton  sent  you  ?" 

"Yes,  Hannah." 

The  pallid  face  brightened.  "He  is  good,  Miss,  he  is.  He 
sends  things  to  eat,  and  sends  the  doctor  too,  and  has  sat 
where  you  are  talking  so  beautiful.  It  rests  me  to  look  at  him." 

The  girl's  eyes  closed.  "So  this  is  poverty,"  thought  Cyril. 
She  looked  about  the  bare,  ugly  little  room,  and  thought  of 
her  own,  at  home.  Here  was  a  glimpse  of  a  world  of  which 
she  had  never  dreamed — a  world  where  ease  and  pleasure 
were  only  names,  and  where  want  and  suffering  were  terrible 
facts.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though  a  great,  gay  bubble  had 
been  pricked.  Could  she  ever  laugh  and  dance  as  gaily  as  be 
fore,  with  this  picture  of  misery  to  remember?  And  such  scenes 
were  the  daily  portion  of  Father  Gaston.  That  splendid 
strength  was  spent  in  alleviating  such  woes.  In  this  life  of  total 
self-abnegation,  without  the  ordinary  ties  of  human  affection, 
he  was  to  live  till  he  died.  There  were,  of  course,  Protestant 
clergymen  who  were  noble  and  self-sacrificing  men  tc  ),  but 
she  had  met  few  like  Father  Gaston.  What  a  pity  he  hr  ppened 


//  Might  Have  Been.  2o 

to  be  a  priest.  He  could  be  such  a  power  among  thousands 
like  herself. 

Dobbs  stood  in  the  doorway.  Cyril  mounted  on  a  nail  keg, 
tacked  the  green  curtain  over  the  window,  and  a  net  across  the 
bed,  and  the  floor  was  swept.  When  all  was  done,  Cyril 
viewed  her  work  with  pride.  With  a  warm  feeling  at  her  heart 
she  stroked  back  the  girl's  curls. 

"I  will  come  again  soon,  Hannah.  Meanwhile  let  your 
father  get  anything  you  need,"  and  she  tucked  a  crisp  bank 
note  beneath  the  pillow. 

When  she  was  gone,  the  girl's  eyes  closed.  "It  must  be 
something  like  this  to  have  a  mother,"  she  thought. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Seven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Cyril,  awake  and  restless 
resolved  to  go  for  a  walk  in  the  March  air,  now  laden  with  the 
odor  of  orange  blossoms  which  whitened  the  groves  in  and 
around  St.  Augustine.  The  streets  were  scarcely  yet  animated 
by  any  signs  of  life  as  she  strolled  towards  the  water  which 
glimmered  through  the  Plaza  shrubbery.  She  mounted  the 
sea-wall,  following  it  to  the  Fort.  How  beautiful  was  this 
fresh  awakening  world  !  Up  on  the  ramparts  she  shaded  her 
eyes  with  her  hand,  and  looked  about.  To  the  left,  the  gray 
line  of  the  beach  divided  the  ocean's  deep  blue  from  the  paler 
blue  of  the  Harbor.  A  faint  haze  hung  over  land  and  water, 
foretelling  heat  for  the  coming  day.  Beyond,  the  low  lines  of 
Anastatia  Island  the  Southern  Atlantic  was  beating  upon  the 
bar  with  white  fury.  She  threw  up  both  arms  in  very  gladness 
of  the  scene  before  her,  and  was  about  scaling  the  ladder  of  the 
old  Spanish  watch  tower,  when  hearing  steps  behind  her,  she 
turned  to  see  Father  Gaston  coming  toward  her.  He  looked 
up,  smiling  at  her  confusion.  During  the  past  fortnight  they 
had  not  only  met  beside  the  sick  girl's  bed,  but  he  had  availed 
himself  of  Mrs.  Winthrop's  earnest  invitation  to  repeat  his 
previous  visit,  and  the  formality  of  a  new  acquaintanceship  had 
sensibly  lessened. 


It  Might  Have  Been.  27 

"I  am  as  much  astonished  to  find  myself  here  as  you  are.  It 
was  one  of  my  impulses"  said  Cyril,  laughing,  as  she  perched 
herself  upon  the  wall,  Father  Gaston  standing  before  her. 

"I  want  to  thank  you  for  what  you  are  accomplishing  at  the 
Deals,"  he  said.  "The  girl  talks  of  you  continually,  and  al 
though  she  is  not  much  better  of  her  illness,  the  change  in  her 
surroundings  is  like  new  life  to  her.  She  calls  you  4the 
Angel  Miss.' " 

"I  too,  am  helped,"  Cyril  replied,  looking  off  into  the  dis 
tance  with  a  softness  in  the  gray  depths  of  her  eyes  which 
touched  him. 

"There  is  material  here  for  making  a  noble  woman,"  he 
thought.  "Who  would  not  wish  to  help  her  ?" 

The  girl  turned  to  him.  "I  cannot  imagine  how  you  ever 
became  a  priest,  you  seem  so  much  a  man  of  the  world  in 
many  ways.  Yet  it  must  have  been  of  your  own  free  will. 
Would  you  mind  telling  me  about  it  sometime  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you  with  great  pleasure,"  he  replied.  "It  was  an 
odd  chance  which  turned  my  steps  into  the  Church." 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  know  it,"  Cyril  said,  wistfully. 

He  paced  up  and  down  for  a  few  moments  in  silence,  th^n 
seated  himself  beside  her  on  the  wall. 

"Thirteen  years  ago  I  was  studying  in  Heildelberg.  Like 
many  of  the  students  there,  I  led  a  gay  life.  My  parents  had 
died  in  my  childhood,  and  left  me  a  considerable  fortune,  so  I 


28  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

had  no  restraint  save  my  own  self-respect.  One  Spring,  several 
friends  and  myself  started  off  for  a  trip  through  Holland  and 
Belgium.  We  were  a  merry  crowd,  and  in  for  all  sorts  of 
pranks,  though  eager  for  the  education  which  travel  will  bring. 
Some  of  us  were  devoted  to  art  and  among  other  galleries  we 
visited  the  'Wirtz'  gallery,  in  Brussels.  Have  you  been 
there?" 

"Oh !  yes,"  said  Cyril.  "I  well  remember  those  painted 
nightmares." 

uYes,  some  of  the  pictures  are  nightmares,  but  many  are 
remarkable  in  other  ways.  Do  you  remember  one  called  'After 
Death  ?'  A  figure  in  gray,  vaporous  garments  is  floating  up 
through  Space — his  body  lying  below  him,  and  his  face  is  a 
wonderful  portrayal  of  mysterious  knowledge.  He  seems  to 
see  into  the  beyond." 

4 'Yes  I  remember  that  face,  and  how  it  haunted  me." 

"That  night  we  returned  late  from  the  Opera.  I  lay  for  a 
long  time  restless,  thinking  over  the  events  of  the  day.  That 
picture  fascinated  me,  and  falling  asleep,  its  mysterious  power 
followed  me  into  the  land  of  dreams.  I  dreamt  that  I  was  the 
departing  soul  of  that  picture,  and  that  it  was  my  body  stretched 
below.  A  long  life  lay  behind  me,  faint  and  far-away.  The 
strongest  impression  I  then  had  of  that  life,  was  pain.  I  re 
membered  a  home  where  my  life  was  swayed  by  both  good 
and  evil  impulses ;  where  I  had  loved,  and  had  lost  those  I 


//  Might  .Have  Been.  29 

loved,  and  where  I  had  suffered,  and  was  glad,  much  as  other 
men.  Religious  belief  had  not  been  an  important  factor  in  my 
life,  and  above  all,  what  seemed  to  me  then  intelligent  research, 
had  served  to  stunt  that  upward  growth,  which  is  the  divine 
tendency  of  every  human  soul. 

"Then  in  my  retrospection,  I  saw  myself  an  old  man.  My 
blood  flowed  less  swiftly,  my  steps  grew  uncertain,  and  I  knew 
that  soon  I  should  pass  through  the  gates  of  Death,  into  the 
untrodden  realms  beyond.  At  last  I  lay  on  a  bed  of  pain.  Old 
interests  fell  away  from  me,  and  I  partly  regained  the  faith  I 
had  as  a  child.  As  I  laid  there,  I  wondered  what  and  where 
I  should  awaken  at  the  moment  my  soul  should  leave  its  home 
of  human  flesh,  and  whether  it  would  miss  its  old  companion, 
and  feel  its  way  like  a  child  into  Eternity,  with  uncertain  steps 
and  groping  intelligence.  Would  the  Christ  be  there,  and 
would  I  know  Him,  or  had  He,  too,  been  but  an  ideal  of  the 
human  mind  ? 

"The  supreme  moment  came.  There  was  weeping  and 
grieving  about  me — a  final  agony,  and — I  lived  ! 

"I  was  hurrying  through  trackless  Space,  the  wide  Universe 
seemed  all  my  own,  and  in  that  immensity  and  profundity,  I 
was  alone  with  the  responsibility  of  my  soul. 

The  priest  rose  and  stood  before  his  listener,  his  head  bared 
to  the  rising  sun,  with  features  glowing  as  with  an  inspira 
tion.  Cyril  sat  with  hands  tightly  clasped,  and  eyes  fixed  in 


30  St.   Augustine   Remnants. 

rapt  attention — lost  to  everything  in  the  fascination  of  his  elo 
quence. 

Still  standing,  he  continued,  "Soon  from  immeasurable 
heights  and  depths  a  sound  of  unutterable  sadness  floated 
around  me,  like  the  sighs  of  couutless  souls.  A  murmuring 
as  of  helpless  woe  burdened  the  air,  which  I  now  perceived 
was  thronged  with  other  shades.  They  moved  on  witli  anx 
ious  faces,  their  eyes  fixed  on  a  golden  light  beyond.  This 
light  shone  with  great  brilliancy,  but  fell  not  upon  us.  Some 
rays  of  its  vivid  splendor  stretched  down  to  Earth  in  the  form 
of  a  cross.  I  drew  near  one  of  these  shades. 

'*  'Where  ca"n  I  find  Him  ?'  I  asked.  He  looked  on  me  with 
inscrutable  eyes. 

"  'He  is  yonder  in  the  light,'  he  replied. 

"  'Can  I  not  go  to  him?'  I  asked  again. 

"  'No,  we  cannot  reach  Him,  till  we  lose  all  earthly  taint.' 

"I  knew  then  that  the  sighing  was  the  long  and  unavailing 
regret  for  lost  opportunities,  and  I,  remembering  my  own  lost 
chances  for  gaining  that  Kingdom,  sighed  too.  Alas!  that 
terrible  remorse.  It  burned  within  me  as  I  hurried  on  and  on, 
seeking  some  spot  in  those  wide  heavens,  where  I  could  for  a 
time  forget. 

"But  hope  did  not  quite  desert  me.  That  shining  cross 
stretched  down  to  Earth  was  a  bow  of  promise.  Above  the 
thunders  of  the  Universe,  music,  grand  yet  tender  reached  me — 
songs  of  triumphant  thanksgiving  and  exaltation-  These  glori- 


//  Might  Have  Been.  31 

ous  harmonies  came  from  glistening  beings  who  were  coming 
and  going  in  the  midst  of  that  shining  splendor.  Their  faces  E 
could  not  see  for  the  brightness,  but  always  that  sound  of  echo 
ing  triumph.  It  fell  on  my  saddened  spirit  with  soothing 
promise.  I  was  cheered,  uplifted.  The  divine  spark  within 
me  glowed  with  quickened  resolution. 

"Oh  !  why  had  I  not  cherished  that  light?  Why  had  I  al 
lowed  trivial  things  of  life  to  dull  its  shining?  Those  years  on 
earth  were  so  short,  and  Eternity  was  so  pitilessly  long.  For 
how  many  cycles  should  I  know  this  dreary  waiting,  before  I 
could  fly  to  that  Kingdom  of  Love. 

'•I  awoke,  my  whole  being  seething  with  excitement.  Those 
sights  and  sounds  still  bade  me  live  no  longer  for  self;  to  re 
member  the  inexorable  law  of  retribution.  I  knew  that  as  I 
lived  on  earth,  so  would  my  other  life  be.  As  I  had  the  essence 
of  God  within  me,  I  should  try  to  live  as  a  God. 

"And  it  was  thus  I  became  a  priest,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 
"Do  you  think  me  a  visionary?" 

"If  you  had  been  a  visionary  you  would  have  regretted  the 
step  long  ago,  but  I'm  sure  you  never  have." 

"No  !  we  never  regret  serving  one  we  love." 

"I  wish  I  could  realize  something  of  your  idea  of  God,"  she 
said.  "My  idea  of  Him  is  different  from  yours." 

"How  different?   How  do  you  think  of  Him  ?"  he  asked. 

"He  has  always  been  to  me  a  tremendous  power,  but  not  so 


32  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

tender  and  loving  as  your  dream  would  make  Him.  I  think  I 
could  express  myself  better  with  my  pen  than  in  words.  I 
always  can." 

"Do  so  then,  Miss  Winthrop." 

"I  will  try,"  she  answered,  rising. 

"Then  I  know  you  will,"  and  for  the  first  time  he  held  out 
his  hand  to  her  for  "good-bye." 

She  left  him  to  continue  his  walk  around  the  old  ramparts 
and  returned  to  the  hotel.  During  the  day  she  took  out  her 
folio  containing  many  half  written  things  in  which  her  natural 
taste  had  found  partial  outlet,  and  determined  to  do  her  best 
for  a  kind  if  able  critic.  After  some  thought  she  enclosed  the 
following  lines  to  him  without  comment. 

O  star-emblazoned  canopy  of  God, 

Thou  hids't  from  mortal  eyes  His  majesty, 

When  in  His  power  he  walks  high  heaven 

To  view  His  universe.     When  Time  was  born 

His  finger  touched  our  sphere  to  awful  speed. 

The  clash  and  roar  of  nature's  forces  He 

Has  tuned  to  gentle,  rhythmic  harmony, 

And  from  the  heights  of  His  omnipotence 

Beheld  and  bounded  with  His  reaching  eye 

Wide  space !  seen  whirling  worlds  burn  out  their  flight 

To  lose  themselves  in  void. — Thus  God  is  great. 

At  dinner,  a  note  was  handed  her.     She  instinctively  knew 


It  Might  Have  Been.  33 

from  whom  it  came,  and  did  not  open  it,  but  later   she  slipped 
into  the  deserted  reading-room,  and  broke  the  st;al. 

"Dear  Miss  Winthrop,"  the  note  ran.  "Your  conception  of 
God's  greatness  is  admirable.  Powerful  and  omnipotent  He 
is,  but  above  all,  and  over  all,  He  is  Love.  This  love  is  as 
wide  as  the  Universe,  as  deep  as  the  sea.  Perhaps  these  lines 
will  help  to  make  my  meaning  clear,  and  serve,  to  complete 
what  you  have  so  well  begun. 

O  tiny  insect,  who  with  cunning  care 
Spread'st  out  thy  frail  and  fairy  threads  to  build 
Thyself  a  home,  who  taught  thee  thy  wise  art? 
'Twas  the  same  God,  who  with  most  tender  care 
Creates  and  guards  the  humblest  life  of  earth, 
And  in  the  depths  of  ocean's  darkest  cave 
Upholds  each  fragile  frond  of  tide-swept  fern. 
The  essence  of  this  life  is  but  a  tear; 
But  riot  one  falls  unseen,  unknown  of  Him. 
The  ever-circling  mantle  of  His  love 
He  wraps  around  us — guides  each  faltering  step. 
The  shadow  of  His  wing  casts  cooling  shade 
On  life's  bare  burning  sands. — Thus  God  is  love. 

Sincerely  yours, 

MAURICE  GASTON," 


CHAPTER  V. 

"Ok!  God,  take  my  heart,  for  I  cannot  give  it  to  Thee.  Keep  it  for 
I  cannot  keep  it  for  Thee.  Save  me  in  spite  of  myself  " 

FENELON. 
*  '  D  RING  the  white  shawl,  John.     I'll  wait  here." 

Cyril  stood  by  the  fountain  in  the  centre  of  the  court. 
The  twinkling  lights  which  formed  "Bien  Venido"  above  the 
entrance  threw  shafts  of  red  and  yellow  color  across  the  masses 
of  shrubbery.  An  occasional  figure  flitted  along  the  loggias, 
but  the  scented  silence  was  only  broken  by  the  fountain's 
splash  and  the  rustle  of  palm  leaves  in  the  dusky  recesses  of 
the  garden. 

Cyril  leaned  over  the  pool.  Against  a  background  of 
blurred  stars  a  radiant  image  smiled  up  at  her  —  gleaming 
neck  and  arms,  white,  like  pearl  in  the  shimmering  waters. 
She  was  to  lead  a  Cotillion  at  one  of  the  cottages  that  evening, 
her  last  in  her  well-beloved  St.  Augustine. 

The  breezes  stirred  her  airy  draperies  as  she  stood  there. 

"Yes,  you  are  drowned,  Cyril  Winthrop?"  she  whispered. 
"All  your  egotisms  and  vanities  are  quite  drowned.  I  shall 
leave  you  here  at  the  bottom  of  this  pool  alone  with  the  stars. 
Ah  !  you  need  not  smile  and  shake  your  head  at  me,  foolish 
girl.  They  call  you  fair,  I  know,  but  I  have  learned  that  one 


//  Might  Have  Been.  35 

must  be  good  and  wise  as  well  as  fair.  I  leave  you  here,  my 
old  self,  and  go  back  to  the  world  with  higher  ambitions." 

With  an  impulsive  gesture  the  girl  plucked  a  rose  from  those 
at  her  breast,  and  tossed  its  petals  upon  her  reflection. 

"See  I  scatter  those  leaves  over  you  my  old  self —  They  are 
for—" 

She  paused,  and  turned  with  a  start,  for  mirrored  beside  her 
own  face  under  the  floating  rose-leaves  was  the  face  of  the 
priest. 

"Ah  !"  she  exclaimed,  "I  began  to  fear  you  were  not  coming 
to  say  'good-bye.'  But  what  has  happened?"  she  asked,  as 
she  saw  his  pale,  grave  face. 

"I  see  it  is  hardly  the  proper  time  to  speak  of  such  a  subject, 
but  I  wanted  you  to  know  that  Hannah  Deal  died  this  after 
noon.  Your  name  was  almost  the  last  on  her  lips,  and  she 
asked  me  to  bring  you  this." 

He  handed  Cyril  the  little  brown  crucifix.  The  girl  took  it 
with  quivering  lips. 

"You  believe  she  is  happy,  Father  Gaston,  do  you  not?" 
But  he  did  not  reply.  His  face  was  an  enigma.  Was  it  a  feel 
ing  of  repulsion  at  the  girl's  frivolous  aspect  in  her  ball  gown, 
or  was  his  human  heart  stirred  by  this  vision  of  beauty  and 
tenderness?  Did  he  picture  his  life  as  it  might  have  been, 
strengthened  and  enriched  by  the  sympathy  of  a  noble  woman  ? 
It  was  but  a  moment  and  he  replied — 


36  .5V.  Augustine  Remnants. 

"Yes,  I  believe  it.  And  you — you  are  happy  too,  are  you 
not — quite  happy  ?" 

"Oh  !  yes,  of  course  1  must  be  happy,"  she  said,  with  an 
effort  at  a  smile.  But  without  your  guidance  I  fear  I  shall  fall 
from  grace." 

"God  forbid,"  he  replied  earnestly.  "Keep  the  cross,  it  will 
remind  you — " 

"Did  you  think  I  was  never  coming?"  said  John  Nesbitt 
gaily,  as  he  joined  them.  "Good  evening,  Father  Gaston — I 
am  glad  to  see  you  before  we  leave.  But  you  will  walk  as  far 
as  the  gate,  won't  you.  Come  Cyril — let  me  put  your  shawl 
on,  we're  late." 

"Father  Gaston  asked  me  if  I  was  happy,  John,"  the  girl 
said,  after  leaving  the  priest. 

"And  what  did  you  tell  him  dear?" 

"I  told  him  I  was,  of  course,"  she  answered.  "How  could  I 
be  otherwise  ?" 

But  that  evening  in  the  ball-room,  as  she  floated  about,  laden 
with  flowers,  smiling  and  radiant,  a  pain  was  on  her  heart, 
where  the  cross  lav. 


JULIE'S  "SEA-SARPEN." 

CHAPTER  I. 

^T  TOLE  yer,  I  seed  it  wid  mine  own  eyes,  and  heard  it 
1  a-snortin',  an  a-lashin'  ob  its  tail  t'rough  de  water  like  it 
wus  a  cussin'.  It  war  right  offde  ole  Fort,  an  I  a-sittin'  on  de 
wall.  Dat  it  war  a  sho'  nuff  sea-sarpen'  I  knows  es  well  as  dat 
chile  Wash'nton  knows  I's  its  fader." 

The  "chile"  referred  to  stood  a  shining  instance  of  filial  cre 
dulity,  one  hand  as  far  in  his  mouth  as  possible,  the  other 
holding  up  its  scant  apparel,  disclosing  a  pair  of  knees  in 
sculptured  ebony.  But  finding  himself  the  subject  of  solemn 
declamation  before  an  awe-inspiring  assembly,  and  probably 
with  the  memory  of  recent  and  decided  impressions  that  he 
had  indeed  a  father's  authority  liable  to  be  shown  again  at  any 
moment,  the  dusky  cherub  forthwith  uncorked  his  mouth  and 
with  "eyes  in  fine  frenzy  rolling,"  emitted  a  howl  of  terror. 

"Lor'sakes,  Julib,  don't  scar'  de  chile,"  exclaimed  Ophelia, 
its  mother,  as  the  child  buried  its  head,  ostrich-like,  among 
her  skirts,  to  avert  the  threatened  danger. 

Julib  blinked  defiance  on  his  circle  of  auditors,  a  grotesque 
group  in  the  fire-lit  cabin.  A  dozen  men  and  wonen  sat 
round  the  blaze,  their  heads  rolling  from  side  to  side  as  they 
gave  vent  to  admiring  chuckles,  their  attention  divided  be- 


38  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

tween  Julib' s  eloquence,  and  the  odoriferous  hoe-cakes  upon 
the  hearth. 

In  a  shadowy  corner  sat  two  old  men,  their  heads  close 
together.  They  seemed  to  feel  the  suspicion  of  glances 
thrown  toward  them  and  moved  uneasily,  their  angular  figures 
casting  ugly  shadows  on  the  wall  behind  them. 

"'Yo'  needn't  be  a  noddin'  ob  yo'  heads,  yo'  two,"  cried 
Ophelia,  with  an  ireful  wag  of  her  turbaned  head.  "Yo'  all 
knows  Julib  hab  a  tongue  ob  truth.  Yo'  jest  wait  till  yo'  heah 
de  whole  ob  de  story,  'fore  yo'  turns  inter  doubtin'  Thomasses.' ' 

Silence  fell  on  the  circle.  Washington  with  legs  wide 
apart  stood  before  the  narrator. 

"Wai,  my  frens,"  said  Julib,  arranging  his  scarlet  with  a 
preparatory  flourish,  "it  happened  disser  way.  Yo'  all  knows 
ob'  de  important  position  I  hab  er  de  dish-washer  in  de  hotel 
an'  dat  I'se  a  man  ob  great  desponsibilities,  an'  dat  I  ain't  no 
fule  ob  a  chicken.  Don'  yo'?" 

"Yes  !  yes  !  we  all  knows,"  came  from  several  mouths. 

"Wai,  night  'fore  las',  I  wus  a  sittin'  on  de  slopin'  wall  ob 
de  ole  Fort  neah  de  water,  a  smokin'  an'  a  cogitatin',  when  off" 
ter  de  right  I  sees  a  line  a  movin'  on  de  water.  Dey  warn't 
no  moon,  so  I  couldn't  see  berry  clar,  but  dat  line  got  nearer 
an'  nearer,  an'  bigger  an'  bigger,  an'  soon  I  discubbered  it  war 
a  livin'  movin'  bein',  wat  hab  a  mind  ob  its  own.  At  first,  I 
w.arn't  particular  interested,  an'  kep  on  a  squashin'  ob  de  gnats 


JuliVs  "Sea-Sarpen\"  39 

when  all  on  a  sudden  I  seed  right  afore  me  de  great  sarpen' 
himself,  wid  coils  an'  an  awful  mouf,  I  tell  yo'.  Lawd  !  It 
would  a  made  an  Injine's  hair  ter  gin  ter  curl  tight  ter  seed  dat 
ere  beast. 

uDere  wus  kind  oh  humps  cum  out  ob  de  water,  w'at  was 
de  coils,  an'  de  snortin's  an'  de  roarin's  wus  like  de  furnace 
blasts  ob  Hell.  It  was  cummin'  nearer  'n  nearer,  makin'  dose 
awful  sounds,  an'  a  tearin'.  I  could  see  its  tail  a  lashin'  ob  de 
water  like  de  new  fangled  wash  in*  machine  et  my  'otel. 

"I  wus  dat  scared,  dat  all  I  could  t'ink  ob  wus  de  Lawd's 
Prayer,  but  dat  didn't  obstruct  dat  animal's  onward  course.  It 
was  a  commin'  straight  fur  me  —  nearer  an'  nearer,  till — till,  I 
could  see  its  red  mouf,  and  dat  its  body  war  a  quarter  ob  a 
mile  long,  sartin*  sho'. 

"I  wus  so  stuck  ter  dat  wall  by  fright  you'd  a  thought  I'd 
tuck  root  dar.  It  could  a  gobbled  me  down  its  froat  like  an 
oyster  but  I  thought  ob  my  dish- wash  in',  an'  Phelia  an'  Wash- 
in'ton,  an'  by  a  cummidigious  effort  I  tore  myself  from  dat 
wall,  and  moved  fur  him. 

"Dey  aint  no  need  fer  yo'  ter  tell  me  der  aint  no  sea  sarpen's, 
fur  dere's  one  a-roostin'  in  dis  berry  harbor,  now — and  wedder 
it  'el  go  browsin'  roun'  on  de  Ian'  seekin'  w'at  it  may  devour, 
only  de  good  Lawd  knows.  It  could  crunch  an'  eat  dis  'ere 
cabin  an'  all  yo'  folks  in  it,  if  it  tuk  a  likin'  fur  a  meal." 

Julib    paused   and    glanced    about   the  circle  as  an  audible 


40  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

shudder  and  chatter  of  teeth  passed  round.  The  two  bent 
figures  in  the  corner  crouched  together,  their  whitened,  wooly 
heads  nodding  in  unison  like  dusky  mandarins. 

A  sudden  cry  of  dismay  from  Washington  was  heard  and  it 
was  discovered  that  he  had  sat  down  in  an  unexpected  fashion 
on  the  hoe  cake.  As  his  mother  jerked  him  off,  low  mutter- 
ings  were  heard  about  k'makin'  him  hotter  yit." 

This  episode  broke  the  silence.  Deep  breaths  were  drawn, 
feet  were  shuffled  and  pipes  re-lit  to  bring  back  a  feeling  of 
security  by  familiar  sensations.  An  old  woman  with  a  high 
squeaking  voice  was  the  first  to  speak,  between  her  whiffs  of 
bad  tobacco. 

44  'Pears  like  Julib  hab  seen  de  wonders  of  natur'  sho'  nuff. 
P'r'aps  it  mought  been  de  debbil  in  pusson.  Wat  yo'  tink 
Deacon  ?"  to  Ophelia's  father. 

One  of  the  figures  in  the  corner  came  out  into  the  circle  of 
fire-light,  his  wizened  face  wearing  the  cynical  smile  of  a 
Voltaire. 

"Dat  dere  is  a  debbil,"  he  began,  "we  all  knows,  fer  we  has 
wrastled  wid  him.  But  es  'fur  sea-sarpen's,  dey  aint  a  common 
breed,  least-wise  roun'  dere  'ere  parts.  I'se  lived  'bout  t'ree 
times  es  long  as  dis  son-in-law  ob  mine,  an'  aint  seed  no  sich 
roarin'  beasts  es  he  tells  ob.  If  dey  is  a  wanderin'  roun'  loose, 
why  aint  I  seed  em  ?  though,"  with  sarcastic  emphasis,  44I 
warn't  in  de  habit  ob  spendin'  my  nights  a  loafin'  an'  aslappin' 


JuliVs  "Sea-Sarpen\"  41 

ob  gnats,  wicl  my  wife  and  brats  tcr  hum.  Dey  is  circumstan 
ces,  I  'low,  when  a  man  will  see  sarpen's  an'  pink  clebbils  an' 
sich  like  in  his  head,  w'at  don't  happen  ter  be  outside  ob  it." 

A  murmur  of  dissent  arose,  and  Julib  sprang  tg  his  feet. 
From  the  dim  corner  came  a  derisive  laugh,  and  another 
shadow  on  the  wall  sprang  suddenly  up  to  the  ceiling  as  Brother 
Williams,  the  Deacon's  friend  and  secret  rival,  rose,  brandish 
ing  his  stick. 

"Fse  'fraid  dat  de  Deacon  es  more  onsart'in  ob  de  spritunl 
debbil  den  he  be  ob  der  sea-sarpen',  fur  I  heah  his  religion  hab 
been  getting  a  little  cool  ob  late.  He  wus  a  shakin'  wid  feah 
a  minit  ago;  I  felt  him.  If  he  don't  hab  no  trust  in  sarpen's 
why  didn't  he  train  his  darter  Phelia  mo'  ter  his  own  notions? 
Yo'  b'lieve  in  'em  sho',  don'  yo'  gal?" 

He  sank  back  into  the  shadows  with  a  triumphant  cackle, 
glancing  at  his  terror-stricken  daughter-in-law. 

With  memories  of  past  tilts  with  his  rival  in  his  mind,  and 
their  attendant  discomforts,  the  deacon  hastened  to  pour  oil 
on  the  water  his  taunts  had  troubled. 

"Wai,  wat's  de  use  ob  discussin' dese  matters.  If  it's  de 
Lawd's  will  fur  us  ter  reach  de  Golden  City  by  de  straight  and 
narrer  way  ob  dat  sarpen's  gullet,  we'se  got  ter  trabel  dat  way. 
I'd  rader  be  swallercd  whole,  dan  be  kicked  inter  Heaben  by 
a  mule  like  our  deah  departed  Brudder  Shadd  who  we  buried 
las'  week." 


42  6V.  Augustine  Remnants. 

The  old  woman  leaned  forward  with  interest. 

"Jes'so!  Jes'so!"  she  said,  and  getting  excited,  "Gone  ter 
Heaben — gone  ter  glory,  with  der  churubins  an'  de  paraffines. 
Glory  !  glory  !  Take  him,  Lawd  !  I'se  a  comin' — comin',  glory, 
glory !" 

Her  voice  was  drowned  by  Brother  Williams's,  whose  sonor 
ous  tones  filled  the  cabin,  for  he  disapproved  the  impression 
the  Deacon's  eloquence  was  making. 

"Hit's  a  pity  dat  after  hundreds  ob  yeahs  ob  experience  'mong 
pussons  ob  color,  dat  our  deah  departed  brudder  shouldn't 
er  known  better  dan  ter  approach  dat  animal  from  de  rear. 
Yes,"  he  continued,  his  eyes  twinkling,  "and  I  wus  at  de 
berryin'  service.  Somebody  put  a  nickel  in  a  hat  ter  start  de 
collection  fur  de  po'  wiclder,  an'  after  goin  all  roun'  it  cum 
back  empty,  He  !  he  !" 

A  general  laugh  shook  the  frail  shanty,  to  the  great  disturb 
ance  of  two  drowsy  chickens  perched  on  a  rafter  above.  But 
this  hilarity  was  brought  to  a  sudden  end  by  the  Deacon's 
stick  rapping  smartly  on  the  Moor. 

"My  frens',"  he  drawled  solemnly,  "it  don'  befit  yo'  ter 
laffat  no  sich  wickednesses.  Dere's  a'  sponsibility  ob  five  cents 
a-floatin'  among  dat  congregation  somewhar'.  Look  out  dat  it 
aint  'mong  us." 

With  a  significant  glance  at  the  irreverent  Brother  Williams 
he  moved  towards  the  door. 


JuliVs  "Sea-Sarperi '."  43 

"I's  a  goin' — am  yo' comin'  rny  way,  Brudder  Williams? 
Yes?  den  it  will  be  'spectable  for  us  to  go  togedder." 

He  patronisingly  pulled  the  wool  of  the  sleeping  Washing 
ton,  and  with  a  dignified  "goodebenin'  "  to  the  others,  clattered 
out,  followed  by  Brother  Williams. 


CHAPTER  II. 

'"JPHE  narrow  roadway  bordered  by  cabins,  was  silent  and 
deserted.  As  they  passed  the  white-washed  "meetin' 
house  "  they  paused.  The  closing  verse  of  a  hymn  sung 
with  all  the  fervor  and  passion  of  a  negro  "revival,"  drifted 
through  the  open  windows. 

'•We're  a-rol//#' — we're  a-rolhV — 
We're  a — rollin'  through  dis 'sinful  worl' — 
We're  a — rol//w' — we're  a — rol/iW — 
We're  a — rollin'  home  ter  God." 

They  stood  arm  in  arm,  the  old  Deacon  beating  time  with 
his  long  foot  on  the  sand.  Perhaps  something  in  the  stirring 
melody  subdued  their  egotism,  for  as  they  moved  among  the 
pine  shadows,  each  leaned  on  the  other  with  more  affectionate 
and  familiar  ease. 

Nothing  was  said  for  some  time,  until,  on  turning  a  corner, 
a  dog  rushed  out  on  them  with  sudden  barking.  Both  started 
to  run,  then  paused  trembling,  looking  at  one  another. 

uYo'  don'  b'lieve  in  dat  trash  ob  Julib's  'bout  de  sea-sarpen', 
doyo'  Brudder?"  asked  the  Deacon  in  a  somewhat  shaky  voice, 
as  they  continued  their  way. 

"Course  not!"  was  the  scornful  reply,  given  with  a  shrink- 


JuUVs  "Sea-Sarpen\"  45 

ing  glance  toward  the  lonely  road  ahead.  "julib  means  well, 
but  he  do  tell  sich  tales.  Bress  yo'  sole,  Deacon,  if  I  t'ought 
dere  wus  sich  a  beast  I'd  go  an'  look  fur  him.  If  we'd  look 
long  'nufT,  we'd  see  him,  sho'." 

"Is  yo'  gwine  ter  look?''  asked  the  Deacon,  with  sudden 
suspicion  for  the  sincerity  of  his  companion's  scepticism. 

"Do  yo'  take  me  fur  a  fule?"  exclaimed  Brother  Williams. 
"Do  yo'  t'ink  I'd  sit  a-roostin'  all  de  night  on  dat  sea-wall  a 
waitin'  fur  roarin'  beasts  w'at  nebber  did  lib  nohow  ?  Sho' ! 
I'se  too  ole  fur  enny  sich  foolerin'  es  dat.  Ere  yo'  gwine  fur 
ter  look?" 

"Me!  exclaimed  the  Deacon.  The  derisive  scorn  of  the 
answer  convinced  Brother  Williams  that  there  was  no  such 
possibility. 

Each  longed  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  to  know  if  such  a 
creature  did  exist,  and  to  see  it  if  it  did.  What  glory  to  tell 
of  it  to  the  other  !  The  Deacon  thrilled  with  the  delightful 
possibility.  How  much  better  than  Julib  he  would  describe 
the  grewsome  details  of  that  mysterious  creature,  if  he  could 
but  see  it.  For  once  he  might  enter  a  realm  of  knowledge 
where  Brother  Williams  could  not  follow,  and  confound  his 
rival  with  his  own  marvelous  experience.  Oh  !  if  he  could 
only  have  one  glimpse  of  "dat  sarpen',"  for  that  it  existed, 
he  began  to  have  no  doubt,  Wild  ideas  and  plans  floated 
his  brain, 


46  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

Meantime  Brother  Williams  hobbling  through  the  sand,  was 
also  burning  with  awakening  ambition.  That  Julib,  his  son, 
had  spoken  the  truth  he  had  not  for  a  moment  doubted,  but 
fear  of  the  Deacon's  ridicule  had  made  him  denv  any  such 
belief.  With  sly  caution  and  an  instinctive  mistrust  of  his 
friend's  sincerity,  he  had  a  half-formed  plan  to  see  this  monster 
of  the  sea  for  himself.  If  he  could  but  corroborate  his  son's 
statement,  and  relate  new  horrors  of  his  own  experience ! 
The  blissful  anticipation  of  being  a  conspicuous  narrator 
while  the  Deacon  should  sit  neglected  in  a  corner,  gave  him 
exquisite  pleasure.  He  could  with  difficulty  refrain  from  exe 
cuting  a  double-shuffle  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

Both  men  were  so  engrossed  in  their  own  thoughts,  that 
little  more  was  said  till  they  bade  each  other  good-night  at 
the  Deacon's  "clearin' ."  They  parted  with  great  magnanim 
ity  their  hearts  mellowed  with  the  prospect  of  anticipated 
triumph. 

Brother  Williams  scurried  home,  shying  at  shadows  and 
rustling  jasmine  vines,  to  his  cabin  half  a  mile  farther. 

The  Deacon  entered  his  house  and  tied  his  door  firmly  with 
a  bit  of  twine. 


CHAPTER  III. 

'"THE  following  night  a  heavy  fog  rolled  in  from  the  sea. 
It  crept  along  the  narrow  streets,  through  sleepy  gardens, 
and  swathed  itself  about  the  motionless  palms,  till  St.  Augus 
tine  in  its  gray  veiling  looked  like  a  city  among  the  clouds. 

Brother  Williams,  his  legs  stretched  out  to  the  imaginary 
warmth  of  a  pile  of  ashes  in  his  fire-place,  sat  lost  in  thought, 
his  head  sunk  forward  on  his  breast.  All  was  still  save  the 
occasional  rustle  of  Pete,  the  dog,  aroused  from  slumber  to 
attend  to  a  dream-disturbing  flea.  Through  the  open  window 
the  fog  drifted,  blurring  the  outlines  of  the  tiny  cabin,  and 
covering  its  bareness  with  a  friendly  veil. 

Brother  Williams  at  last  rose  with  a  profound  sigh,  and 
moving  to  the  door,  peered  cautiously  out.  His  cabin  stood 
in  its  acre  of  "clearin',"  the  only  sign  of  human  life.  A 
group  of  tall  pines  with  their  scanty  foliage  away  at  their  tops, 
were  like  gawky  boys  grown  "too  big  for  their  clothes." 
Mysterious  chirps  and  rustles  came  from  the  scrub  palmettos, 
whose  sharp  leaves  seemed  to  point  like  derisive  fingers  at  the 
solitary  watcher. 

With  a  searching  glance  this  way  and  that,  Brother  Wil 
liams  crept  softly  back  into  the  house.  The  dog  rose. 


48  St.   Augustine  Remnants. 

"Yo*  jest  be  still  Pete.  Don'  yo'  be  fur  snuffin'  yo'  nose 
into  t'ings  w'at  ain't  yo'  perfession." 

With  slow  caution  he  got  into  a  great  coat  which  fell  in 
ragged  luxuriance  to  his  heels.  With  many  a  nervous  glance 
and  pause  he  went  out,  latching  the  gate  softly  behind  him, 
and  passed  down  the  road. 

Entering  the  town,  he  avoided  the  more  brilliantly  lighted 
streets,  keeping  in  the  shadow  of  garden  walls  as  much  as 
possible,  and  dodging  around  the  groups  of  colored  men  loiter 
ing  on  the  corners.  He  crossed  the  Pla/a,  and  reaching  the 
sea-wall,  paused.  He  fancied  he  heard  steps  behind  him  on 
the  stone  coping,  but  could  see  nothing  for  the  mist.  After 
listening  intently  he  went  on. 

u  [t's  doin'  ob  de  secret  t'ings  dat  makes  us  scart,"  he  thought. 
"Dere  aint  nobody  a  keepin'  step  wid  me  fur  fun  on  sich  a 
night  as  dis'  nohow." 

Everything  was  still.  The  ripple  of  the  water  below  him 
was  the  only  sound  his  anxious  ears  could  now  hear.  He 
went  steadily  on  to  the  Fort,  and  around  the  sloping  wall  to 
its  farthest  extremity.  Wrapping  his  cloak  well  around  him, 
he  sat  down,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  narrow  strip  of  beach  and 
water  discernible  through  the  mist  on  the  left  of  the  Fort. 

If  the  gulls  had  been  awake,  they  would  have  seen  a  few 
moments  later,  a  second  figure  emerge  from  the  fog  witli 
stealthy  tread.  Like  i\  cut  in  search  of  prey,  the  Deacoi] 


JuliVs  ' ' Sea-Sarpen\"  49 

crept  along  the  Fort  wall,  his  old  shoes  making  no  sound  on  its 
hard  surface.  Not  a  hundred  feet  from  Brother  Williams  he 
paused,  and  peered  triumphantly  about  him.  No  sign  of 
human  life  about.  He  was  alone  to  discover — what? 

He  shivered  slightly  as  he  seated  himself.  Those  gray, 
mysterious  depths  of  mist  and  sea  might  hide  untold  horrors. 
He  shrank  back  from  the  edge  near  the  water,  and  got  as  far 
up  on  the  shelving  wall,  as  its  width  permitted. 

For  a  long  time  the  two  daring  spirits  sat  there  motionless, 
the  mist  dripping  from  their  battered  hats,  and  running  in 
little  streams  down  their  cavernous  wrinkles.  Now  and  then 
the  young  moon  would  peer  for  a  moment  upon  them,  to  be 
lost  again  in  the  moving  vapor. 

"1's  a  courageous  man,"  said  the  Deacon  to  himself. 
'•Yo'  wouldn't  ketch  dat  white-livered  Brudder  Williams  in 
no  sich  purdigriment  nohow.  He's  a  stuffin'  hisself  no  doubt 
at  dis  berry  minnit  wid  Phelia's  hoe-cake,  wid  no  mo'  care  fur 
science  than  dat  brat  Washington." 

Brother  Williams  at  the  other  end  of  the  wall,  stirred  un 
easily,  trying  to  find  the  soft  side  of  its  clam-shell  surface. 

"It  wouldn't  be  no  sich  man  as  de  Deacon,"  he  thought, 
"ter  be  out  heah  a  sarchin'  fur  troof.  Jes'  won't  I  make  dat 
wool  ob  hissen  stan'  up  wid  s'prise,  when  I  tells  him  w'at 
I  seen.  He  be  allers  soundin'  de  loud  timbral  fur  his  own 
smartnesses,  but  he'd  be  naryjpijs,  he  would-  I  4°n'  scar'  a. 
demnition  bit,  I 


50  ,5V.  August ine  Remnants. 

A  toad  hopping  along  came  in  contact  with  his  hand.  He 
barely  stifled  a  scream. 

"I  'low  es  clat  did  s'prise  me  a  little,"  he  muttered.  ''It  vvur 
fur  usin'  a  cussin'  word,  I  specs." 

The  minutes  dragged  slowly  by.  They  seemed  hours  to  the 
two  men  of  science.  They  grew  more  damp  and  more  cold 
and  were  decidedly  nervous. 

"If  I's  fuled,"  said  the  Deacon  to  himself,  "dat  cowerlin 
Brudder  Williams  '11  ne'bber  know,  an'  if  I  isn't —  !  The  delight 
ful  possibility  of  surpassing  his  rival,  sent  a  glow  through  his 
trembling  frame. 

All  at  once  both  men  gave  a  start.  Off  to  the  right  a  sound 
was  heard:  faint,  but  still  a  sound.  A  wheezing,  gasping, 
gurgle  came  across  the  water,  accompanied  by  dull  splashing. 
The  Deacon's  breath  stopped,  he  felt  he  was  about  to  stifle. 

"Hit's  it! — hit's  it!"  he  gasped,  with  shaking  limbs. 

Brother  Williams  felt  his  blood  congeal. 

"Dat's  de  noise  es  Julib  done  told  'bout,  but  I  ain't  scart,  no 
I  ain't."  He  rose  with  shaking  knees  and  peered  into  the 
mist. 

The  noise  grew  louder — it  seemed  to  fill  the  air,  his  ears,  his 
brain,  with  a  confused  horror  of  sound.  It  resembled  the  snorts 
and  breathings  of  some  terrible  monster.  No  such  sound  had 
either  of  them  ever  heard  before.  No  lights  were  visible,  so  it 
could  not  be  a  vessel  of  any  kind — and  what  vessel  ever  made 
such  a  noise  ! 


JuliVs  "Sca-Sarpeu   "  51 

The  Deacon  was  now  beside  himself  with  terror.  He  longed 
to  cry  out,  to  escape,  but  power  of  motion  and  spirit  had  left 
him. 

Brother  Williams,  torn  between  abject  fear  and  curiosity, 
knelt  on  the  edge  of  the  wall  with  a  pair  of  trembling  hands 
raised  to  heaven. 

"Oh  !  Lawd,  I'se  a  sinner,  a  po'  weak  sinner;  but  oh  !  good, 
kind  Lawd,  let  me  see  it.  Yo'  let  yo'  John  see  de  Reberlations. 
Oh!  keep  me — oh  glory,  glory,  o-o-o-o-h — h — h — h — !" 

The  horrid  noise  was  almost  below  him — he  saw  the  hideous 
coils,  the  tossing  head,  through  the  mist.  With  one  yell  of 
ungovernable  terror,  he  turned  and  fled.  Blind,  and  dizzy 
with  horror,  he  sped  along'  the  wall  to  be  sent  tumbling  pros 
trate  over  the  Deacon.  With  a  mingled  yell  of  dismay  they 
grappled  and  rolled  over  and  over,  each  ignorant  of  what  or 
who  was  the  other.  At  that  moment  the  moon  looked  do\vn, 
and  they  shook  theniselves  apart. 

"Yo'  Deacon"  !  gasped  Brother  Williams,  glaring  at  his  foe. 

"Yes!  yes!  it's  me.     Oh!  w'at  is  it?  oh!   oh!" 

He  clung  trembling  to  his  companion,  who  now,  with  his 
rival  there  before  him,  felt  some  small  courage  return. 

The  two  old  men  clung  to  each  other  and  crept  slowly 
toward  the  noise.  The  terrible  monster  had  passed  the  Fort, 
moving  toward  the  beach  at  the  left.  They  crept,  step  by  step, 
to  the  point  in  the  wall,  both  beginning  to  feel  partially  secure, 


52  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

when  suddenly  a  snort  of  prodigious  strength  caused  them  to 
jump  as  though  shot. 

A  whirling  of  water,  and  another  snort.  They  were  both 
about  to  cast  science  to  the  winds  and  fly  ignominiously,  when 
the  mist  lifted,  disclosing,  not  fifty  feet  away — five  horses 
emerging  in  single  file  from  the  water,  shaking  their  dripping 
flanks,  and  then  walking  calmly  across  the  beach. 

The  two  men  turned  and  faced  each  other  with  mingled 
wrath  and  shame. 

uEs  fur  yo',  Brudder  Williams,  yo'  mus'  feel  mighty  like  a 
sheep  ter  be  makin'  sich  a  screechin'  fuss  'bout  a  few  po'  horses 
swimmin'  home  from  de  island.  Here  wus  I,"  his  voice  rising 
in  virtuous  indignation,  "a  sittin'  quiet  an'  peaceable-like,  a 
composin'  my  experience  speech  fur  ter-morrow's  meetin', 
when  yo'  comes  a-gallopin'  along  like  a  boltin'  lion,  a-knock- 
in'  me  ober,  an'  actin'  like  Balaam's  ass.  Yo'  is  a  noodlin' 
fule,  I'se  bressed  if  yo'  aint." 

"Yo'  tell  me,  Deacon,  dat  yo'  wus  sittin'  hear  speechifying ! 
Go  'long  wid  sich  lyin'.  Yo'  roostin'  in  dis  hear  wet !  Tell  dat 
story  ter  de  ole  women-folks.  I  aint  no  chicken  ter  be  filled 
wid  no  sich  stuffin'.  So  yo' t'ink  I  bin  scart !  I  done  seed  yo' 
sittin'  hear  all  de  time,  an'  knowed  yo's  bin  watchin'  fur  dat 
sarpen'.  Yes,  I  jess  done  dat  screechin'  ter  scar'  yo'.  An'  I  done 
gone  and  done  it  too,  sartin'.  He  !  he  !  ha  !  ha  !" 

Brother  Williaips  broke  into  a  feeble  packje  and  turned 


JuliVs  "Sea-Sarpen*:*  53 

ward.       He  not  only  felt  shaky  about  his  knees,  but  feared  his 
imagination  might  fail  if  called  upon  to  do  more  lying. 

At  the  "experience  rneetin'  "  the  following  evening,  these  two 
brave  men  sat  very  far  apart,  and  had  no  experience  to  relate. 
It  was  noticed  however  that  they  prayed  at  each  other  with 
unusual  fervor. 


[The  Sea-serpent  illusion,  as  described  in  the  above  story,  was  actu 
ally  experienced  by  Mr.  W.  H.P.,  a  winter  resident  of  St.  Augustine, 
when  visiting  the  Fort  on  a  cloudy  evening.] 


THE  END  OF  AN   EARLDOM. 

CHAPTER   I. 

""THE  occasion  of  my  first  meeting  Lady  Gladys  was  in  this 
wise.  I  was  stopping  with  my  friend  Maxwell  Keith,  an 
Americanized  Scotchman,  upon  a  semi-tropical  island  off  the 
coast  of  Georgia,  which  he  had  purchased  for  a  winter  home 
with  a  game-stocked  Park,  as  much  like  the  ideal  English  seat 
as  possible.  He  was  a  younger  son  whose  sole  patrimony  had 
been  a  vigorous  physique  and  a  splendid  energy,  and  with  these 
he  came  to  America,  where  ten  years  among  iron  manufac 
tures  had  secured  him  a  handsome  fortune,  and  had  also  lessened 
his  veneration  for  the  decaying  and  idle  upper  classes  of  Eng 
land. 

He  spent  his  summers  in  Scotland,  and  his  old  friends  there 
raised  their  eyebrows  at  his  generous  American  fashion  of  pre 
senting  various  towns  with  Public  Libraries,  and  were  still 
more  open  in  their  displeasure  when  he  announced  his  views 
upon  the  education  of  the  lower  classes.  Meanwhile  he  enter 
tained  his  friends  lavishly  on  both  sides  of  the  water  :  carried 
them  about  on  four-in-hands  and  in  steam  yachts,  and  was,  in 
short,  a  delightful  and  forcible  advertisement  for  the  success  of 
American  industries. 


The  End  of  an  Earldom.  55 

His  luxurious  island  home  was  a  charming  mingling  of  Eng 
lish  form  and  American  convenience,  and  here  for  the  time 
being  he  dreamed  himself  a  country  squire  of  good  old  English 
style  but  without  the  climatic  discomforts  of  "the  tight  little 
isle."  This  winter  he  had  a  dozen  friends  to  bear  him  com 
pany — among  them  Mr.  Kenby,  a  prominent  politician,  Mr. 
Ruddrow,  a  newly  arisen  novelist  who  said  sharp  things,  and 
the  usual  professional  beauty.  There  was  also  an  amateur 
actor  of  classic  profile,  to  relieve  the  tedium  of  possible  dull 
weather. 

After  a  fortnight  of  shooting  and  exploration  of  the  beautiful 
island,  our  energetic  host  suggested  that  a  cruise  on  the  steam- 
yacht  lying  idly  in  the  little  harbor,  would  be  a  pleasant  diver 
sion.  The  idea  was  hailed  with  delight.  The  women  were 
quickly  prepared,  while  the  men  provided  themselves  liberally 
with  fishing  tackle,  not  forgetting  a  generous  supply  of  cigars 
and  champagne,  and  we  sailed  merrily  away  for  the  sunny 
waters  of  Florida. 

Our  objective  point  was  St.  Augustine,  but  we  lingered  along 
the  shore  with  its  flat  stretches  of  wind-swept  marshes,  and 
backgrounds  of  grim  pines.  We  ran  twenty  or  thirty  miles 
up  the  St.  John's  river,  fishing  in  its  placid  waters,  or,  an 
chored  at  pleasure  in  the  numerous  inlets,  we  idled  away  the 
hours,  watching  the  pink  and  gray  cranes,  standing  in  one- 
legged  stateliness  under  the  vine  tangled  palmettos. 


*)0  St.  A.ugustfHC  Remnants. 

The  women  of  our  party,  having  heard  of  the  social  gaieties 
at  St.  Augustine,  presently  had  enough  of  this  idyllic  life,  so 
bowing  to  their  decree,  we  wound  up  our  reels  and  were  soon 
steaming  under  the  frowning  ramparts  of  Fort  San  Marco. 

The  sky  line  of  the  quaint  little  city,  with  its  towers  and 
Cathedral  campanile,  wras  losing  itself  in  the  yellow  glow  of  a 
setting  sun.  Sounds  of  martial  music  floated  across  the  water 
from  the  evening  Parade  at  the  Garrison.  Sailboats  of  all  sizes 
laden  with  parties  of  young  people  were  being  poled  in  by 
their  skippers,  with  sails  hanging  limp  about  the  masts. 

On  the  morrow  began  a  different  life  for  our  party.  There 
was  rennis,  riding  and  bathing  by  day,  and  dancing  every 
evening,  with  occasional  dinners  among  the  cottagers.  The 
contrasts  of  the  place  were  curious  •»•-  a  mixture  of  old  Spain 
and  nineteenth-century  smartness.  If  Philip  II  could  but 
traverse  these  narrow  streets,  once  his  own  ;  see  the  electric 
lights  swung  from  corner  to  corner,  or  look  in  upon  a  "hop" 
at  the  Alcazar,  how  astounded  that  astute  monarch  would  be 
at  such  innovations.  And  all  with  never  a  "by  your  leave, 
most  grave  and  reverend  Sefior." 

One  afternoon  our  "beauty"  suggested  a  crab  race.  Most  of 
us  were  unacquainted  with  this  amusement,  but  under  her  di 
rections  we  rowed  to  the  beach,  provided  with  a  basket  of 
lively  crustaceans.  On  landing,  each  selected  a  crab,  and 
stuck  in  some  small  joint  a  tiny  flag.  A  line  being  drawn 


T'/ic  12 nd  of  an 

about  fifty  feet  from  the  water,  we  all  knelt  along  the  line, 
holding  our  animated  captives  in  position  as  well  as  we  could. 
After  some  shrieks  from  the  women,  who  were  novices  in 
the  art,  our  fair  umpire  called  "-one!  two  !  three  !  go  !'*  and 
the  crabs  sidled  off  to  find  refuge  in  the  water  as  fast  as 
fright  and  their  awkwardness  could  carry  them.  Such  yells  of 
excitement ! 

"I  bet  five  dollars  on  the  red  flag !"  shouted  he  of  the  classic 
profile,  dancing  with  excitement.  Our  "beauty,"  regardless 
of  her  elaborate  gown,  followed  her  beast  on  her  knees,  only 
to  see  his  claws  hopelessly  entangled  in  those  of  a  rival  racer. 
But  one  after  another,  they  all  reached  the  goal,  amid  the 
cheers  of  their  backers,  and  the  lively  bobbing  of  the  flags 
above  the  water  indicated  a  general  scrimmage  of  congratula 
tion  at  their  final  escape  from  the  jaws  of  death. 

After  two  or  three  races  I  was  satisfied  with  my  winnings  in 
the  noble  sport,  and  presently  slipping  away  unobserved,  took 
my  boat  for  a  row  and  quiet  pipe. 

•  I  left  the  gay  little  town  behind  me,  and  rowed  by  the  Fort 
toward  a  stretch  of  lonely  marshes  which  looked  invitingly 
quiet.  For  a  while  I  could  find  no  water-way  to  their  midst, 
but  after  some  hard  pulling  a  narrow  creek  came  into  view. 
This  I  followed  with  no  special  purpose  except  a  whim  to  get 
as  far  away  as  possible  from  everything  and  everyone.  Gray 
sand  dunes,  blown  by  the  wind  into  fantastic  shapes,  stretched 

5 


58  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

away  on  every  side,  broken  by  spaces  of  brown  grass  over 
which  gulls  wheeled  with  plaintive  cries.  Far  away  to  the 
right,  I  could  hear  the  surf  booming  on  the  North  beach,  but 
here  not  a  ripple  stirred  the  waters,  save  when  insect  wings 
touched  its  placid  surface,  or  a  crane  started  up  from  the  tufts 
of  salt  grass. 

I  rowed  on  and  on,  taking  no  thought  of  time,  with  only  a 
happy  sense  of  lien  £tre,  until  I  was  aroused  from  my  som- 
nambulent  mood  by  an  obstacle  ahead. 

A  causeway  stretched  across  the  entire  breadth  of  my  vision 
from  the  forest  on  the  extreme  left,  to  what  appeared  a  thickly 
wooded  island  or  else  a  promontory  of  the  main  land,  on  my 
right.  No  sign  of  human  life  disturbed  the  perfect  quiet.  I 
left  the  boat,  and  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  causeway.  Beyond, 
the  marshes  stretched  away  in  flat  monotony.  No  tracks  of 
wheels  or  footsteps  were  visible  upon  the  causeway,  but  the 
center  was  worn  in  a  narrow  track  by  horses'  feet.  My  curi 
osity  was  now  fully  awakened.  I  pulled  the  boat  high  out  of 
water  and  started  for  the  island. 

It  was  the  forest  primeval  into  which  the  track  led  me. 
Grass  grew  breast  high,  with  no  reminder  of  the  scythe.  To 
the  left  the  old  paths  were  almost  obliterated  by  tangled  un 
der  growth.  It  was  a  wilderness  beautiful  in  Nature's  own 
prodigality.  I  pushed  my  way  through  vine  and  bracken 
with  curious  expectancy,  as  though  a  haunted  castle  and  sleep 
ing  princess  lay  hid  in  this  mazy  woodland. 


The  Itnd  of  an   Earldom.  59 

Suddenly  I  heard  a  childish  voice  close  to  me  crooning  a 
lullaby.  I  pushed  aside  some  brushwood,  and  there  in  a  little 
opening  among  the  ferns  sat  a  child  rocking  a  doll  to  and  fro 
in  her  arms.  She  was  sitting  at  the  foot  of  a  giant  beech, 
whose  roots  protruding  from  their  earth-covering  stretched  in 
all  directions.  Between  these  roots  the  child  had  placed  toy 
tables  and  chairs  made  from  bits  of  bark  and  sticks.  Flowers 
were  stuck  here  and  there  as  decoration  for  her  idyllic  house. 
Suddenly  she  gave  her  doll  a  shake. 

"You  tiresome  child !"  she  said,  "Why  won't  you  go  to 
sleep?  You  must  be  very  happy  to  be  so  forever  smiling. 
Grandpa  says  only  the  dead  are  happy.  Perhaps  you're  dead." 

She  became  conscious  of  a  strange  presence,  and  turned 
toward  me  one  of  the  loveliest  child  faces  I  have  ever  seen.  It 
was  oval  in  shape  and  very  small,  made  more  so  by  the  great 
violet  eyes  which  looked  straight  into  mine  with  innocent  as 
tonishment.  A  mass  of  curls  framed  the  face.  She  was  clad 
in  a  frock  of  rough  gray  serge,  much  too  short  for  her,  fastened 
by  white  bone  buttons.  But  this  small  person  was  in  no  way 
disconcerted  by  her  unexpected  visitor.  She  clasped  her  doll 
closer. 

"Do  you  want  to  find  your  way  to  the  house?"  she  asked. 
"It  is  straight  on,  but  you  know  grandpa  doesn't  receive  visi 
tors." 

I  replied  that  I  was  not  in  search  of  the  house  or  her  grand- 


60  6V.  Augustine  Remnants. 

father,  in  fact  supposed  I  was  the  only  person  about.  Her 
mouth  broke  into  a  laugh ;  then,  as  though  fearing  I  might  feel 
the  awkwardness  of  my  position,  the  child  grew  politely 
grave. 

"I  am  Lady  Gladys  Cope,"  she  said,  "and  my  grandfather 
is  Lord  Carnsforth  and  lives  here.  I  take  care  of  him."  To 
say  I  was  astonished  but  mildly  expresses  my  feelings,  as  I 
gazed  at  the  tattered  little  princess  before  me.  I  had  met  here 
and  there  in  my  western  trips  some  titles  among  the  numerous 
younger  sons  of  English  aristocracy  who  had  been  driven  there 
by  necessity,  and  even  in  southern  Florida  I  had  run  against  a 
self-exiled  Duke,  but  had  heard  nothing  of  this  Lord  and  was 
sure  that  St.  Augustine  was  unconscious  of  its  high-born  neigh 
bor.  I  apologized  to  the  best  of  my  ability  for  having  tres 
passed,  but  she  interrupted  me. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  and  think  you  are  a  very  nice 
person.  But  you  must  be  tired  ;  won't  you  sit  down?" 

With  regal  air  she  motioned  me  to  a  mossy  stone,  and  re 
suming  her  position,  smoothed  down  her  doll's  scanty  petti 
coats. 

I  was  warm  and  tired,  and  very  willing  to  rest  for  a  while 
with  so  unique  a  companion.  She  was  voluble,  and  \\  <.• 
chatted  on,  much  to  our  mutual  gratification.  We  soon  became 
good  friends.  She  explained  to  me  the  mysteries  of  her 
housekeeping,  and  how  the  caterpillars  were  at  times  very 


The   End  of  an  Earldom.  61 

troublesome  in  upsetting  her  furniture.  She  said  this  was  her 
country  house,  her  town  house  was  in  a  distant  field  in  a  hay 
rick.  I  inquired  politely  for  her  children's  health  and  showed 
her  how  to  make  rabbits  out  of  my  pocket  handkerchief.  The 
sun  was  sinking  and  the  woods  growing  chill,  so  I  suggested 
that  I  should  escort  her  home,  and  we  pushed  our  way  through 
the  sun  reddened  leaves.  She  chatted  freely  of  her  home 
and  home  life,  as  freely  as  only  a  child  could  who  had  never 
known  what  strangers  were. 

"Grandpa  is  very  old,"  she  said;  "he  and  I  live  here  quite 
alone  with  Allan  and  Tabby.  They  are  the  servants.  You  see 
Grandpa  is  very  poor  now,  but  he  didn't  use  to  be.  We,  that 
is,  Mamma  and  Grandpa,  came  over  here  from  England  be 
cause  our  old  home  went  to  someone  else.  He  bought  this 
orange  grove,  but  Mamma  died,  and  all  the  trees  died,  so  it 
left  only  me  to  take  care  of  Grandpa.  Tabby  says  if  I  had  been 
a  boy  I  would  have  been  an  Earl  like  he  is,  but  I'm  glad  I 
wasn't,  for  I  don't  think  Earls  are  happy  people.  Grandpa 
doesn't  seem  so." 

By  this  time  we  had  come  in  sight  of  the  house,  and  I  shall 
never  forget  the  beautiful  desolation  of  the  scene.  The  house, 
a  long  rambling  structure  of  brick,  with  a  sky  line  much 
broken  by  quaint  chimneys,  rose  against  the  sky.  It  had  evi 
dently  been  the  home  of  some  wealthy  Southern  planter  before 
the  war,  and  in  its  day,  luxurious  to  an  unusual  degree.  Ivy 


62  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

clambered  over  doors  and  windows,  some  of  which  evidently 
hud  been  closed  for  years,  and  wild  vines  ran  riot  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  gabled  roof.  A  wide  piazza  stretched  along  the 
front  of  the  house,  its  decayed  wooden  steps  leading  to  a  gar 
den  choked  with  weeds.  A  wilderness  of  roses  filled  the  air 
with  their  scent.  The  only  sound  of  life  was  the  sleepy  splash 
of  a  dilapidated  fountain,  and  the  twittering  of  birds  as  they 
settled  themselves  to  rest.  As  my  small  guide  led  me  up  the 
broken  steps,  I  felt  like  some  ghost  come  out  of  the  dead  past 
to  revisit  the  scene  of  brilliant  life  and  gaiety  as  dead  and  for 
gotten  as  myself.  By  the  great  central  door  at  which  we 
paused  a  rabbit  nibbled  the  vines  which  covered  the  lintel  and 
seemed  in  nowise  disturbed  when  Lady  Gladys  raised  the 
knocker  in  both  hands  and  woke  the  silence  to  resonant  clamor. 
At  last  a  step  was  heard  and  the  door  swung  open,  disclosing 
a  wizened  little  man  in  rusty,  black  knickerbockers  and 
buckled  shoes. 

uAh  !  it  is  your  ladyship."  Then  catching  sight  of  my 
stalwart  figure  looked  quickly  from  her  to  me. 

uAllan,  this  is  a  gentleman  I  met  in  the  woods,"  she  ex 
plained.  Then  turning  to  me,  "Please  come  in;  I  want  to 
take  you  to  grandpa." 

But  I  hastened  to  excuse  myself.  "You  forget  that  I  have 
not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Lord  Carnsforth,"  I  said,  "juul 
doubtless  he  is  not  prepared  to  receive  visitors." 


The  End  of  an  Earldim.  63 

"Oh,  he  will  surely  be  glad  to  see  you,"  she  urged. 

I  took  out  my  card.  "Take  this  to  him  first,"  I  said,  "and 
then  if  he  is  willing,  I  should  be  delighted  to  meet  him." 

Like  a  flash  she  was  gone,  Allan  shambling  after  her,  leav 
ing  me  in  a  great  hall.  I  made  out  in  the  dim  light  a  carved 
staircase  of  great  beauty,  and  that  everything  was  pervaded 
by  an  atmosphere  of  dreary  disuse.  Lady  Gladys  emerged 
from  a  dusky  corner,  flushed  and  breathless,  and,  following  her 
beckoning  finger,  our  footsteps  on  the  hard  and  polished  floor 
awakening  uncanny  echoes  in  the  silence,  she  paused  at  an  open 
door  with  finger  on  lip.  From  the  light  of  a  glass-stained  win 
dow  at  the  farther  end  I  discerned  a  room  of  noble  proportions. 
Midway  between  floor  and  ceiling  a  gallery  ran  round  the  room, 
the  walls  of  which  were  lined  with  books.  A  smoldering  fire 
gleamed  from  a  cavern-like  fireplace,  and  before  this  sat  an  old 
man  in  a  wheel  chair.  A  hound  lay  stretched  at  his  feet. 

"Saint  Pere,"  she  cried,  "I've  brought  the  gentleman." 

"It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  meet  any  acquaintance  of  yours 
my  darling,"  Lord  Carnsforth  said,  as  he  courteously  tried 
to  rise,  but  sinking  back  with  a  sigh  of  pain,  motioned  me  to 
a  seat.  Lady  Gladys  perched  herself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair 
and  explained  our  meeting. 

"I  seldom  meet  anyone  from  the  outside  world,"  he  re 
marked,  and  it  is  many  years  since  I  trod  its  highways  myself, 
though  I  feel  a  strong  admiration  for  this  wonderful  country 
of  yours  and  its  progressive  people." 


64  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

I  expressed  my  admiration  for  what  I  had  seen  of  English 
life.  "It  shows  nothing  of  that  striving  for  effect  that  is  the 
bane  of  our  new  world.  Perhaps  it  is  because  you  live  so 
much  in  the  country  and  are  content  with  the  world  as  your 
fathers  left  it.  We  are  forever  trying  to  better  ourselves  and 
circumstances,  and  I  almost  begin  to  think  it  a  mistake." 

Lord  Carnsforth  leaned  forward.  "My  dear  sir,  you  are 
wrong  there.  It  is  that  constant  effort  for  what  is  better  which 
has  made  you  what  you  are — the  greatest  empire  the  world  has 
ever  seen.  It  is  difficult  for  English  gentlemen  of  the  present 
generation  to  better  their  condition.  I  wish  it  were  not  so. 
The  old  idea  of  trade  being  ignoble  has  died  its  natural  death 
and  many  would  like  to  enter  healthful  business  careers,  but 
lack  the  knowledge  to  do  so.  I  envy  some  of  my  old  friends 
who  have  been  able  to  face  the  loss  of  rents  and  strike  out  for 
themselves.  My  friend  the  Duke  of  Eastminster  has  made  a 
great  success  of  his  London  hansoms.  You  doubtless  have 
heard  of  my  straitened  circumstances.  For  this  little  one's 
sake  I  wish  I  were  younger.  It  is  hard  to  sit  in  my  chimney 
corner  idle  when  heart  and  brain  would  so  gladly  make  them 
selves  useful." 

"Lady  Gladys  told  me  something  of  her  past  life,"  I  re 
plied  frankly.  "But  you  have  much  left  in  so  loving  and 
charming  a  companion." 

My   heart   ached   for  the   pathetic  pair  of  comrades.     He, 


The  End  of  an  Earldom.  65 

worn  and  spent  from  his, unsuccessful  battle  with  life  and  she 
so  frail  to  commence  the  warfare. 

"You  see  she  is  such  a  wild  little  bairn,"  he  continued, 
"that  I  can  do  nothing  better  for  her.  She  runs  about  in  the 
sunshine  much  as  the  rabbits  do,  but  she  is  an  ever  present 
comfort  and  solace  to  me.  I  regret  the  uselessness  of  a  life  like 
mine." 

"Why,  Saint  Pere,"  the  child  broke  in,  "it  is  not  true  that 
you  are  useless.  Have  you  not  written  all  those  splendid 
books  the  papers  praise,  and  how  could  I  live  without  you 
when  I  love  you  so •?" 

The  eager  voice  seemed  to  break  the  sadness  which  had  set 
tled  on  us  all.  The  old  servant  entered  with  lamps,  and 
realizing  the  lateness  of  the  hour  I  rose  to  leave.  I  expressed 
my  pleasure  at  the  chance  which  had  brought  me  there. 

Lord  Carnsforth  held  out  his  hand  in  farewell,  begging  me 
to  come  again  soon.  "It  has  been  like  a  breeze  from  your 
'Rockies'  to  see  you,"  he  said. 

Lady  Gladys  showed  me  to  the  door.  And  so  I  left  her  at 
the  top  of  the  steps,  a  gray  little  ghost  in  the  evening  mist. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

ON  my  return  to  the  yacht,  I  joined  my  host  who  was  hav 
ing  a  smoke  at  the  bow. 

"Keith,"  I  said,  throwing  myself  on  the  rug  by  his  side, 
'•did  you  ever  hear  in  your  country  of  Lord  Carnsforth  ?  I 
have  recently  heard  of  him  as  having  a  peculiar  history." 

"Carnsforth,"  he  replied,  "of  course  I  have.  His  place, 
Carnsforth  Heyes,  is  in  the  adjoining  county  to  my  summer 
home,  and  we  frequently  drive  over  the  estate,  as  indeed  every 
one  does,  to  see  the  remains  of  one  of  the  finest  seats  in  the 
Kingdom." 

"What  was  the  cause  of  his  misfortunes?"  I  asked. 

"A  scapegrace  son,"  said  he.  The  greatest  gambler  who 
ever  disgraced  his  country  at  Monaco.  He  lost  heavily  at 
home  on  the  turf  and  then  his  passion  led  him  to  Monte  Carlo, 
where  he  sunk  more  than  the  entire  value  of  the  family  estate. 
He  then  shot  himself  at  the  door  of  the  Casino." 

"Married,  wasn't  he?" 

"Yes !  He  had  married  into  the  Cadogan  family  in  the  face 
of  their  bitter  opposition — owing  to  his  well-known  character  ; 
in  fact  they  never  forgave  the  wife,  and  she  has  been  com 
pelled  to  share  the  Carnsforth  misfortunes." 

"What  became  of  Carnsforth  Heyes?" 


The  End  of  an  Earldom .  67 

"Creditors  took  possession,  but  out  of  respect  to  the  Earl's 
age  and  troubles,  they  allowed  him  the  use  of  three  or  four 
rooms  during  his  life,  and  a  pony  chaise  for  driving  about  the 
Park.  Frequently,  while  driving  four-in-hand  through  his 
place,  we  have  met,  and  I  recalled  the  old  saw  about  the 
'whirligig  of  time.'  The  avenues  of  trees  planted  by  his  an 
cestors  centuries  ago,  are  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  country. 
Every  ancient  seat  has  its  special  feature,  but  those  avenues  of 
mammoth  trees  with  their  noble  vistas  are  unequalled  even  in 
the  Park  at  Windsor. 

''But  the  old  Earl's  pride  could  not  brook  such  a  position 
long  in  his  ancestral  halls.  His  heart  was  broken,  and  in  a 
few  years  he  disappeared  with  his  daughter-in-law  and  her 
child — it  was  said,  to  live  in  some  retired  village  in  France." 


CHAPTER  II. 

AFTER  this  conversation  some  days  were  spent  in  the  usual 
round  of  mild  dissipations  at  St.  Augustine,  but  my  mind 
wandered  continually  to  my  enchanted  island.  I  had  said  noth 
ing  of  my  interesting  episode,  knowing  that  the  idle  folk  would 
straightway  wish  to  gratify  their  curiosity.  One  day  a  rain  storm 
(for  it  is  not  all  sunshine  in  Florida)  was  sending  the  clouds  scur 
rying  across  a  sullen  sky,  and  I  decided  to  see  my  little  princess 
again.  I  wanted  to  escape  unquestioned  and  unnoticed.  Most  of 
the  party  were  congregated  in  the  cabin  of  the  yacht,  playing 
Tiddledy  Winks  for  nickels.  Feeling  I  should  not  be  missed, 
I  donned  a  mackintosh  and  rowed  off  in  the  storm. 

Nature  was  a  study  in  brown  and  gray  —  sky,  sand  dunes 
and  water,  all  were  in  one  tone  of  colorless  bleakness.  I 
climbed  the  causeway,  and  after  a  rapid  walk,  reached  the 
house.  It  looked  more  desolate  than  ever.  The  rain  splashed 
on  the  mouldy  walks,  whirled  against  the  walk  in  spasmodic 
fury,  and  fell  in  streams  from  the  mossy  eaves  upon  the  weeds 
below.  Rose  leaves,  whipped  off  by  the  wind,  lay  in  red  and 
pink  drifts  on  every  side. 

I  knocked  vigorously,  to  be  sent  tumbling  in  by  the  wind 
over  Lady  Gladys,  who  had  opened  the  door.  She  danced 


The  End  of  an  Earldom.  69 

about  with  delight  as  I  doffed  my  dripping  garments,  her  golden 
head  a  veritable  sunbeam  in  the  grim  hall. 

"Oh!  I  knew  you  would  come,"  she  cried.  "I  was  just 
longing  to  see  you  and  have  watched  for  you  all  day."  Then 
her  face  grew  grave ;  she  pulled  my  face  down  to  hers. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,"  she  whispered,  "for  grandpa  has  been 
acting  so  strangely.  I'm  sure  something  troubles  him.  Last 
night  he  moaned  when  he  thought  me  asleep,  and  when  I  ran 
to  him  he  said,  'Nothing,  child,  only  a  bad  dream.'" 

We  reached  the  room  where  Lord  Carnsforth  was  sitting. 
A  fire  burned  on  the  hearth,  sending  a  rosy  warmth  about  the 
room.  By  its  light  I  -saw  he  had  aged  since  I  last  saw  him. 
When  we  had  exchanged  greetings  he  left  the  conversation  to 
Lady  Gladys.  I  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  hearth,  the  child  lean 
ing  against  me.  He  noticed  this,  and  called  her  to  him,  and 
clasped  her  closely,  looking  gloomily  at  me  over  her  sunny 
head.  I  tried  different  topics  of  conversation  but  in  vain  ;  the 
courteous  host  of  my  previous  visit  remained  silent,  looking 
moodily  into  the  fire.  At  last  Lady  Gladys  relieved  my  em 
barrassment  by  saying; — "Saint  Pere,  I'm  going  to  show  him 
the  house"  ;  so  we  left  the  room  he  vouchsafing  no  reply. 

When  the  door  closed  behind  us  she  looked  at  me  with  trem 
bling  lips.  "You  see  there  is  something,"  she  said.  "He  has 
been  that  way  for  two  days.  Sometimes  he  seems  quite  to  for 
get  me,  and  just  sits  there  and  thinks,  thinks.  Then,  again,  he 


70  vSV.  Augustine  Remnants. 

won't  let  me  leave  him  even  for  an  instant,  and  kisses  me  so 
hard  it  hurts." 

She  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  I  sat  down  and  drew  the  trem 
bling  little  figure  into  my  arms.  That  something  had  occurred 
I  did  not  doubt. 

"He  is  probably  not  well,  Gladys,"  I  said.  "You  know 
when  one  is  old,  one  is  apt  to  have  moods  like  that.  Doubtless 
it  will  pass  away  like  those  clouds  out  there,  and  we'll  soon 
have  the  sun  shining  as  brightly  as  ever." 

Gradually  the  sobs  censed,  and  the  storm  of  grief  subsided  as 
quickly  as  it  had  come.  So  hand  in  hand  we  passed  through 
several  rooms  whose  web-covered  windows  let  enough  light 
through  to  show  their  bareness,  and  came  to  a  once  gaily  dec 
orated  ball-room. 

The  stately  drawing-room  was  quite  empty  of  furniture  ex 
cept  a  few  old-fashioned  pieces — mute  remnants  of  a  once  bril 
liant  home.  As  Gladys  was  about  taking  me  farther  Allan 
appeared  and  announced  tea,  and  I  for  one  was  glad  to  get 
back  to  the  warmth  and  cheer  of  the  fire. 

Lord  Carnsforth  turned  to  the  child.  "My  darling,  you  are 
not  dressed ;  run  and  ask  Tabby  to  give  you  a  better  frock  in 
honor  of  our  guest."  The  child  seemed  surprised,  but  did  as 
she  was  bidden.  When  her  light  footfall  died  away  he  roused 
himself  and  said:  — 

"You  may  be  surprised  that  I  should  speak  to  you  on  a  mat- 


The  End  of  an  Earldom.  71 

ter  of  so  personal  a  nature,  but  I  have  a  question  to  decide 
which  involves  the  life  and  happiness  of  that  child,  and  much 
suffering  for  her  as  well  as  for  myself.  I  cannot  refrain  from 
soliciting  the  sound  judgment  and  sympathy  which  I  feel  sure 
you  will  give  me."  His  voice  sank  almost  to  a  whisper.  He 
shaded  his  eyes  from  the  fire  and  continued  : — 

"You  may  have  already  learned  of  my  unfortunate  circum 
stances.  I  have  reached  my  threescore  years  and  ten,  and  my 
little  Gladys  will  soon  be  left  without  a  home.  She  loves  me, 
and  I  had  hoped  to  have  that  love  spared  me  to  the  end,  but  I 
fear  it  is  to  be  otherwise.  Two  days  since  I  received  a  letter 
from  a  distant  relative  by  marriage,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Stretfield, 
a  woman  of  position  and  wealth,  offering  to  take  Gladys,  edu 
cate  and  provide  for  her  on  the  condition"  —  the  old  man 
paused,  as  though  to  gather  strength — "that  I  give  her  to  her 
keeping  immediately.  She  is  now  about  seven,  and  these  years 
have  been  comparatively  wasted  as  far  as  conventional  education 
is  concerned.  That  she  must  leave  me  I  begin  to  realize,  but 
my  love  prevents  me  clearly  appreciating  the  importance  and 
advantage  of  the  offer." 

He  leaned  forward  and  gazed  for  a  moment  into  a  vacancy 
from  which  he  returned  with  a  suppressed  shudder. 

"I  have  not  told  Gladys  yet.  It  is  the  want  of  a  little  human 
sympathy  which  has  made  me  tell  you  this.  The  prospect  of 
loneliness  is  terrible,  and  I  pray  God  it  may  not  be  long.  Sir, 
can  you  comprehend  what  it  means  for  me  ?  From  her  infancy 


72  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

she  has  been  my  all.  Her  laugh  is  my  lost  youth  ;  her  faintest 
sigh  a  keen  pain  to  me.  She  may  learn  to  forget,  she  is  so 
young.  It  would  be  but  natural,  but  the  thought  of  it  seems 
almost  more  than  I  can  bear.  The  long  days  here  alone,  and 
still  alone  till  the  end."  The  quivering  voice  paused. 

4 'Dear  Lord  Carnsforth,"  I  said,  "I  am  inexpressibly  grieved 
by  what  you  have  told  me,  but  it  is  the  inexorable  law  that  the 
old  must  surrender  to  the  young.  Were  you  to  be  taken  from 
her,  the  shelter  and  care  which  are  now  offered  would  in  all 
probability  prove  an  immeasurable  blessing.  Besides  she  could 
sometimes  come  to  you  here,  and  you  would  constantly  be  in 
formed  of  her  growth  and  education." 

He  interrupted  me  with  a  feeble  gesture.  "You  mistake 
there,"  he  said,  "I  shall  probably  never  see  her.  The  family 
of  the  child's  mother  never  approved  of  the  marriage,  and  Mrs. 
Stretfield  is  on  her  side  of  the  house.  She  takes  Gladys  for 
her  mother's  sake,  not  mine.  But  the  child  is  coming — say 
nothing." 

He  relapsed  into  silence  as  Lady  Gladys  bounded  into  the 
room  in  her  fresh  white  gown.  She  noticed  neither  Lord 
Carnsforth's  silence  nor  my  abstraction,  but  clambered  into  a 
high  chair  to  pour  tea.  The  firelight  played  on  the  little  hands 
as  they  hovered  over  the  shining  silver  and  fragile  old  cups, 
and  danced  in  fantastic  shadows  over  the  silent  figure  in  the 
chair."  The  hound  rose  and  pushed  his  nose  into  the  nerveless 
hand,  but  got  no  answering  caress. 


CHAPTER    III. 

'•''All  things  are  transient. 
They  being  born  have  lived, 
And  having  lived  are  dead, 
And  being  dead  are  glad 
To  be  at  rest." 

Inscription  on  an  ancient  Hindoo  bell. 

A  FEW  days  after,  when  starting  for  my  morning  swim,  a 
note  was  handed  me.  It  ran  thus:  —  "Lady  Gladys 
leaves  in  a  few  hours,  and  would  bid  her  friend  good-bye. 
—  Cams  forth" 

I  found  Lord  Carnsforth  sitting  under  a  giant  oak  near  the 
house,  but  very  shrunken  and  enfeebled.  Gladys  was  not  there. 
Near  him  sat  a  handsome  woman  of  about  five-and-thirty. 
With  an  indescribable  air  of  thorough  breeding  she  turned  her 
wrell  poised  head  to  acknowledge  the  introduction,  and  raised 
a  lorgnette  to  her  cool,  gray  eyes. 

"I  am  very  pleased  to  meet  you,"  she  said,  with  a  slight 
drawl..  "Lady  Gladys  has  spoken  of  you." 

I  told  her  of  our  unexpected  meeting  and  her  fine  mouth 
parted  in  a  low  rippling  laugh. 

'•She  has  not  been  so  fortunate  in  meeting  as  many  of  your 
countrymen  as  I  have,"  she  replied. 


74  -S^-  Augustine  Remnants. 

"  Just  before  leaving  London  I  went  out  to  dinner  with  quite 
an  interesting  American,  a  Mr.  Bill — Mr.  Buffalo  Bill — I  be 
lieve.  He  was  from  Arizona.  Do  you  know  him  ?  He  was, 
ah  ! — somewhat  unusual." 

With  a  suppressed  smile  I  expressed  my  regret  at  not  having 
that  pleasure,  that,  in  fact,  I  knew  but  few  people  in  Arizona. 
Whether  the  woman  was  chaffing  me  or  not  I  could  not  tell. 
Her  thin  mouth  was  smileless,  and  her  drawl  quite  even. 
Just  then  a  small  figure  coming  down  the  terrace  steps  sent 
all  thoughts  of  "Mr.  Bill"  out  of  my  mind. 

Such  a  pathetic  vision  as  came  toward  us  across  the  lawn. 
The  face  was  as  white  as  a  drenched  lily.  Dark  circles  lay 
under  the  violet  eyes,  which  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us 
with  dull  uncertainty.  The  mouth  was  folded  into  straight, 
sad  lines.  All  bloom  and  youth  seemed  suddenly  to  have  been 
crushed  out  of  her.  She  went  to  Lord  Carnsforth  and  leaned 
against  him.  For  a  moment  no  one  spoke.  Those  two  silent 
figures  seemed  to  destroy  even  Mrs.  Stretfield's  well  bred  com 
posure.  At  last  I  said  : — 

"Dear  little  Gladys,  won't  you  come  and  speak  to  me?"  She 
listlessly  turned  her  head  and  gave  me  a  limp  hand.  I  lifted 
the  wan  little  face  till  the  lustreless  eyes  looked  into  mine. 

"And  so  you  are  to  leave  us  for  the  great  world  you  once  so 
longed  to  see.  You  will  find  many  new  friends  there,  but  I 
feel  that  you  will  not  forget  the  old  ones,  Perhaps  we  may 


The  End  of  an  Earldom.  75 

meet  some  day  when  you  will  have  grown  to  be  a  fine  lady. 
I  shall  remind  you  of  our  first  meeting  under  the  beech  tree 
and  ask  you  if  you  remember  how  to  make  rabbits  out  of  my 
pocket  handkerchief." 

She  did  not  even  smile  in  response,  but  looked  into  my  eyes 
as  though  no  word  had  reached  her.  Lord  Carnsforth  stirred 
in  his  chair  and  she  ran  to  him. 

"My  little  bairn  will,  I  hope,  become  a  noble  woman,"  he 
said  in  a  faint  voice.  "I  am  sorry  that  I  shall  not  be  here  to 
.see  her  then."  For  answer  the  child  clasped  his  hand  convul 
sively  to  her  breast.  Mrs.  Stretfield  leaned  forward  and  said 
sweetly  : — 

"Gladys  dear,  it  seems  very  hard  to  leave  your  home.  I 
know,  but  your  new  life  will  be  so  full  of  other  interests  you 
will  soon  forget." 

The  child  turned  on  her  with  despairing  fury.  "Forget!" 
she  cried  ;  "I  wish  I  had  never  seen  you,  that  you  should  take 
me  away.  I  feel  that  I  shall  hate  you.  You  are  cold,  as  cold 
as  stone.  You  will  never  love  me.  No,  not  even  as  much 
as  Allan  and  Tabby.  And  how  can  grandpa  live  without 
me?  Who  is  to  take  care  of  him  when  I  am  gone?  Oh! 
Grandpa,  grandpa,  don't  send  me  away." 

She  burst  into  a  storm  of  tears.  Mrs.  Stretfield  looked  at 
her  jewelled  watch.  I  took  the  hint  and  rose  to  go.  Raising 
the  trembling  little  figure  in  my  arms  I  kissed  her.  "Good-by. 


76  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

little  one,"  I  whispered.  "Be  brave  arid  true,  and  God  keep 
you." 

I  set  her  down  and  turned  to  Mrs.  Stretfield,  standing  calm 
and  tall  in  her  sweeping  draperies. 

"We  both  know  that  it  is  for  her  good  that  she  should  go," 
I  said.  "But  she  is  a  child  and  has  never  known  anything  but 
love.  I  feel  sure  you  will  be  gentle  with  her." 

She  swept  me  with  a  charming,  supercilious  glance.  "Do 
not  imagine  she  goes  to  a  prison,  and  that  I  am  the  cruel 
jailer,"  she  said.  "I  am  already  much  attached  to  my  little 
kinswoman." 

With  a  bow  over  her  extended  hand,  and  a  last  glance  at  the 
child  sobbing  in  Lord  Carnsforth's  arms,  I  left  them.  All 
through  the  merry  lunch,  and  later,  as  our  merry  party  steamed 
up  the  North  River,  I  was  haunted  by  the  scene  of  that  morn 
ing.  There  was  laughter  and  chatter  around  me,  and  mando 
lins  tinkled  to  the  singing  of  the  young  people.  A  pretty  girl, 
who  sat  next  to  me,  turned  to  her  neighbor. 

uHe  is  so  spasmodic,"  I  heard  her  say,  "he  either  talks  too 
much,  or  not  at  all." 

When  we  once  more  dropped  anchor,  I  found  it  still  lacked 
over  an  hour  to  dinner  and  I  started  for  the  island.  I  could 
bear  no  longer  the  thought  of  Lord  Carnsforth,  companionless 
and  without  sympathy. 

To  my  surprise  I  found  him  sitting  on  the  piazza,  the  houm] 


The  End  of  a?i  Earldom.  77 

at  his  feet.  I  softly  climbed  the  mouldy  steps  and  approached 
him.  He  was  asleep.  Roses  clambered  over  the  broken 
balustrade,  and  swallows  darted  and  twittered  about  him,  now 
skimming  low,  then  flashing  above  to  the  mossy  eaves. 

The  air  moved  the  thin  locks  above  his  forehead  ;  a  look  as 
of  youth  had  settled  about  the  mouth.  The  deep  lines  and 
furrows  seemed  to  have  been  smoothed  away  by  some  gentle 
hand,  leaving  an  expression  of  perfect  rest  and  peace. 

Suddenly  the  hound  rose  and  stood  motionless  looking   into 

§ 

his  master's  face,  and  stooping,  licked  the  hand  which  hung 
over  the  chair's  arm.  Then  raising  his  head  he  broke  into  a 
long,  dismal  howl. 

I  bent  forward.  No  breath  stirred  the  chest.  The  hound's 
mournful  cry  was  the  dirge  of  an  earldom. 


PRINCE  CHARMING  OF  NEW  YORK. 

CHAPTER  I. 

If  all  the  birds  sang  out  of  tune 

When  winds  their  plumage  tossed, 
If  flowers  imprisoned  their  perfume 

When  they  their  sun-god  losf, 
If  brooks  refused  to  dance  and  play 
When  pobls  ivere  dark  -with  shadoivs  gray, — 
Sad  -would  Dame  Nattire  be  ! 

If  all  the  pain  on  ivorn  hearts  lain 

No  surface  smiles  concealed. 
Had  all  the  tears  in  all  past  years 

Been  from  their  depths  revealed: 
If  Love  could  not  Grief's  course  restrain, 
Choke  back  the  tears,  crush  doivn  the  pain, 
Fruitless  tvould  be  Love's  plea. 

ST.  AUGUSTINE  seemed  as  dead  as  its  patron  saint  that 
hot,  breathless  afternoon.  The  sun  beat  down  into  the 
narrow  streets  and  on  the  closed  blinds  of  the  quaint,  white 
washed  houses,  whose  overhanging  balconies  made  the  only 
shade  in  the  general  glare.  In  the  sleepy  old  gardens  not  a 
leaf  or  bird  stirred.  Blisters  rose  on  the  new  paint  of  the  Plaza 
railing,  and  even  the  negroes  lying  on  the  benches  were  com 
pelled  to  move  their  sun-loving  bodies  into  the  shade.  The 


Prince  Charming  of  New  York.  79 

sea  wall  was  deserted.  On  the  narrow  strip  of  sand  left  by 
the  receding  tide,  "fiddlers"  sidled  to  and  fro,  and  the  delicate 
sea  moss  clinging  to  the  coquina  turned  to  brown  nothingness 
in  the  intense  heat.  To  the  west,  beyond  the  pines,  gray 
shadows  were  gathering,  which  meant  a  storm,  later  on. 

Old  Lopo  Sanchez,  perched  on  his  springless  wooden  cart, 
noticed  the  western  shadows  and  urged  his  ambling  steed  to  a 
trot,  which  jolted  his  stiff  joints  and  caused  the  horse's  ears  to 
flap  in  unison  with  its  rattling  harness.  Lopo  presented  a 
curious  appearance,  owing  to  a  large  piece  of  burlap  tied  to 
the  top  of  his  green  umbrella,  which,  falling  down  and  around 
him,  looked  not  unlike  a  nun's  veil.  From  under  its  ragged 
edge  peered  his  elongated  visage,  with  thin  locks  falling  over 
the  bent  shoulders.  The  brown  skin  and  browner  eyes  told  of 
Spanish  blood,  but  there  was  little  of  Spanish  pride  or  spirit  in 
the  livid  old  face.  Twenty  years  before  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  a  young  Northern  girl  who  taught  the  rising  generation 
in  the  yellow  school  house  on  Hospital  Street.  He  wooed  and 
won  her  in  true  Southern  fashion,  though  the  town  wondered 
that  the  ''school  missus"  should  take  good-for-nothing  Lopo 
Sanchez  for  her  husband.  He  had  adored  her  as  a  weak  nature 
will  sometimes  adore  a  stronger  one.  Her  thrift  and  mental 
briskness  he  admired,  though  but  dimly  understood,  and  when 
she  died  after  the  birth  of  their  baby  daughter,  he  felt  that  some 
thing  in  him  had  snapped — the  mainspring  of  his  life  was 
broken. 


80  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

He  sold  out  his  curiosity  shop  and  moved  out  of  town  a 
couple  of  miles  beyond  the  City  gates  to  a  deserted  plantation 
on  the  shore.  There,  surrounded  by  relics  of  the  home  to 
which  he  had  brought  his  girl-wife,  he  gradually  separated  him 
self  from  his  old  interests,  and  was  soon  forgotten,  or  only  re 
membered  as  that  queer  old  man  who  lived  with  the  crabs  on 
the  edge  of  the  sand  dunes.  Round  his  daughter  he  twined 
the  broken  tendrils  of  his  lost  love,  and  as  she  grew  to  <rirlhood, 

O  O 

wreathed  her  with  the  same  adoring  affection  he  had  felt  for 
her  dead  mother. 

But  somehow  he  was  not  as  happy  as  he  told  himself  he- 
should  be.  Was  not  Ria  a  girl  to  be  proud  of?  Had  she  not 
a  face  like  a  flower,  and  ways  the  most  gentle  and  bewitching? 
But  he  felt  that  she  had  never  given  him  an  affection  as  ardent 
and  unselfish  as  his  own.  He  thought  he  must  be  growing 
old  and  selfish,  and  when  his  heart  felt  particularly  empty, 
would  tend  his  potato  patch  with  renewed  vigor,  or  try  by 
some  little  attention  to  make  up  for  her  lack  of  thoughtfulness 
for  him. 

The  two  led  simple  lives  ;  solitary,  save  for  the  woman  who 
helped  Ria  in  her  household  matters,  and  their  weekly  visit  to 
town  to  sell  their  oranges  or  flowers.  For  eight  years  Ria  had 
studied  at  the  convent,  and  read  somewhat  promiscuously  from 
the  public  library,  but  she  loved  far  better  to  lie  for  hours  like 
a  lizard  in  the  sun,  or  take  "headers"  from  the  end  of  their 


Prince  Charming  of  New  York.  ft  I 

dugout.  Her  father  she  loved  in  a  gentle  fashion.  She  would 
cling  and  purr  around  him  in  her  pretty  way,  though  much  in 
the  same  way  that  her  kitten  would  rub  itself  against  a  tree- 
trunk.  It  pleased  her  mental  epidermis. 

As  the  cart  jolted  on  over  the  sandy  road,  Lopo  thought 
vaguely  of  these  things,  but  only  vaguely,  for  something  had 
occurred  lately  which  occupied  all  his  spare  moments. 

A  fortnight  before,  on  coming  from  the  beach,  he  found  Ria 
under  the  orange  trees  with  her  lace  work,  and  kneeling  before 
her,  a  tall  young  fellow,  whose  blue  eyes  were  watching  with 
interest  her  little  brown  hands,  casting  the  shuttle  to  and  fro. 

She  was  smiling  and  dimpling,  and  he  seemed  all  uncon 
scious  of  the  brown  earth  his  white  flannel  knees  were  pressing. 
When  Lopo  joined  them  the  young  fellow  had  risen  with  un 
embarrassed  grace,  and  explained  that  having  walked  from  the 
town  and  feeling  very  tired  and  thirsty,  he  had  ventured  to  ask 
for  some  water.  Lopo  replied  civilly,  though  wondering  what 
iace  work  had  to  do  with  thirst,  and  why  Ria's  face  should  be 
so  aglow. 

To  the  girl  the  stranger  was  the  Prince  Charming,  of  whom 
she  had  so  often  dreamed.  To  be  sure  he  had  no  flowing 
curls  or  silken  doublet,  but,  after  all,  were  not  close-cropped 
hair  and  well-fitting  flannels  as  comely?  She  looked  from' 
him  to  her  father  standing  awkwardly  in  the  sun —  how  rough 
and  ugly  he  looked.  Dick  Barclay  was  not  looking  at  Lopo, 


82  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

but  at  the  daughter  with  her  dusky  eyes  and  soft,  full  mouth. 
Indeed  he  had  continued  that  occupation  every  day  ever  since. 
Day  by  day  the  girl  seemed  to  blossom  into  greater  beauty — a 
thousand  little  coquetries  showed  themselves  to  Lopo's  obser 
vant  eyes.  The  young  man  seemed  to  mean  well  enough,  aad 
it  might  mean  great  good  fortune  for  his  little  girl. 

He  turned  "Fly  Catcher"  into  the  grove  surrounding  the 
house,  and,  feeling  in  his  pocket  for  the  ribbon  he  had  bought 
her,  he  stroked  it  with  his  fingers.  He  drove  around  to  the 
shed,  fed  the  horse,  then  went  slowly  up  the  path  bordered  by 
tall  oleanders,  to  the  house.  He  felt  faint  and  tired.  At  the 
open  door  he  paused  and  looked  in. 

Hither  and  thither  spun  a  slender  white  figure,  her  skirts 
held  in  old-time  fashion,  while  her  feet  kept  time  to  the  wait/ 
she  was  singing.  She  spun  round  and  round,  here  and  there, 
like  a  bit  of  thistle-down,  her  head  thrown  back  in  very  aban 
donment  of  joyous  animation.  The  walls  and  ceiling  of  the 
room  were  covered  with  ivy,  which  grew  on  bamboo  trellises, 
nailed  to  the  coquina  ;  against  this  dark  background  the  airy 
figure  of  the  girl  stood  out  in  spirited  distinctness.  Dick  Bar 
clay  sat  perched  on  the  window-sill,  his  blue  eyes  following 
every  movement  with  evident  admiration. 

"Brava!  Brava  !"  he  cried,  as  she  passed  in  her  whirling- 
flight.  i(You  are  a  fairy,  a  wind  sprite." 

She  laughed,  and  stood  in  pretty  confusion,  pulling  at  the 


Prince  Charming  of  Neiv  York.  83 

roses  in  her  belt.  "You  see,"  she  said,  "father  will  never  let 
me  go  to  the  hotel  hops,  so  sometimes  I  have  a  ball  all  to  my 
self.  I  imagine  the  room,"  with  a  free  sweep  of  her  arm,ua 
great  hall  lit  by  hundreds  of  glittering  lights  shining  down  on 
stately  men  and  beautiful  women.  There  are  perfumes  and 
laughter,  rustle  of  silks  and  brilliant  glances,  and  all  the 
bright  and  beautiful  things  I  read  about.  Oh  !  I  can  see  it 
quite  distinctly,  and  can  hear  the  music,  till  I  have  to  dance, 
dance." 

She  paused,  seeing  Lopo  in  the  doorway,  ran  to  him. 

"Oh!  father — your  supper.  I  quite  forgot  and  it  must  be 
cold.  We  made  some  cakes,  Mr.  Barclay  and  I.  You  should 
have  seen  him  in  Melvyna's  old  apron."  She  turned  to  her 
companion  with  a  laugh.  Lopo  passed  through  to  the  kitchen, 
cut  himself  some  bread,  after  tasting  the  cakes  now  cold  and 
heavy.  He  had  not  given  Ria  the  ribbon.  With  her  head 
full  of  such  splendid  fancies  it  would  have  seemed  a  poor  gift. 
Through  the  closed  door  he  could  hear  a  murmur  of  words 
from  Dick,  then  a  ripple  of  laughter  from  her.  He  suddenly 
felt  old  and  tired.  He  looked  at  the  sun,  a  red  ball  sinking 
behind  the  bank  of  dark  shadows.  He  felt  a  strange  longing 
to  be  far  away,  alone,  where  nothing  could  jar  or  hurt  him  any 
more,  where  the  hungry  feeling  at  his  heart  could  be  forgotten. 
Rising  he  crossed  to  where  a  bit  of  mirror  hung  on  the  wall. 
Putting  his  face  close  to  it  he  examined  it  carefully.  He  saw 


84  S/.  Augustine  Remnants. 

a  pair  of  dull  eyes,  a  pained  look  in  their  depths;  a  thin,  worn 
face,  sensitive  chin  and  mouth,  with  weak  lines  at  the  cor- 

* 

ners.  He  glanced  down  at  his  rough  hands  and  coarse  wrists, 
— then  brushing  his  coat  sleeve  across  his  eyes,  went  quietly 
out. 


CHAPTER  IT. 

A  WEEK  of  sea-breezes  followed  the  storm  of  that  night. 
Lopo  spent  most  of  the  time  fishing  or  gathering  the 
oranges,  which  hung  in  golden  plenty  behind  the  house.  Ria 
sang  about  the  house  or  lay  for  hours  on  the  sand,  her  head  on 
her  arms,  looking  up  to  the  blue  vault  above,  where  hawks 
sailed  lazily  on  motionless  wings.  Dick  Barclay  continued 
his  daily  visits,  each  one  being  a  little  longer  than  the  last. 
Lopo  noticed  their  talk  was  less  unconstrained  when  he  was 
near,  so  kept  away  as  much  as  possible.  The  young  fellow 
entertained  her  by  the  hour  with  stories  of  his  travels,  or  his 
home  in  far-away  New  York.  He  explained  to  her  the  myster 
ies  of  base  ball,  and  would  send  oranges  whirling  through  the 
air  shouting  to  her,  "Run  !  run!  first  base  !"  But  she  liked 
best  to  hear  of  the  Patriarch  balls,  or  coasting  at  Tuxedo.  It 
seemed  very  wonderful  and  grand.  One  evening  she  nestled 
herself  in  her  father's  arms  and  told  him  all  about  it.  "Oh  ! 
why  can't  I  go  where  he  lives?"  she  sighed. 

One  scented  moonlit  evening  Lopo  had  spent  making  out 
his  accounts  in  his  slow,  cramped  fashion  by  the  light  of  a 
kerosene  lamp.  Mosquitoes  came  buzzing  through  the  window 
and  beetles  bumped  about  the  ceiling.  At  last  he  put  out  the 


86  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

lamp  and  went  out.  Through  the  jasmine  vines  covering  the 
piazza  the  moon  cast  flickering  shadows  ;  a  mocking  bird  was 
singing  in  the  almond  tree.  Lopo  was  conscious  in  his 
sensitive  fashion  of  the  peaceful  scene.  He  heard  the  murmur 
of  the  young  people  and  went  toward  them.  Suddenly  he 
paused,  a  dazed  look  growing  on  his  face.  In  a  shadowy 
corner  stood  Dick,  his  arm  around  the  girl,  her  face  hidden  on 
his  breast. 

"Oh!  Ria,  little  one,"  he  was  saying,  "you  don't  know 
what  love  is.  It  means  longing  by  day  and  dreaming  by  night ; 
it  means  this — this."  He  raised  her  face  and  kissed  her  mouth, 
hair  and  slender  throat.  Lopo  stirred  ;  Dick,  startled,  looked 
up,  then  sprang  down,  ran  to  his  horse  and  away.  Ria,  with 
a  little  cry,  fled  past  him  into  the  house. 

He  stood  bewildered  for  a  moment,  looking  out  on  the  sea, 
listening  to  the  receding  sound  of  the  horse's  hoofs.  uSo  he 
loves  her,"  he  murmured,  then  turned  and  went  into  the  house 
and  up  to  his  room.  The  moonlight  showed  the  bare  furnish 
ings  distinctly  :  the  narrow  bed,  the  Madonna  and  crucifix  on 
the  wall,  a  few  daguerrotypes  on  the  high  bureau.  The  vines 
outside  cast  shadows  like  moving  water  on  the  painted  floor 
and  bit  of  rag  carpet. 

He  sat  quietly  for  some  time,  his  lips  moving  and  eyes  fixed 
on  vacancy,  then  rose  and  crossed  to  an  old-fashioned  chest  of 
drawers  with  brass  handles,  which  stood  in  a  dim  corner  under 


Prince  Charming  of  New  York.  87 

the  eaves.  He  knelt  stiffly  down  and  opened  the  lowest 
drawer.  Out  of  this  he  drew  a  long-tailed  blue  coat,  a  snuff- 
colored  waistcoat,  and  ruffled  shirt,  his  wedding  clothes. 
Slowly,  with  trembling  ringers  he  put  these  on,  fastened  the 
high  stock  round  his  throat  and  drew  on  a  pair  of  mould-spotted 
white  gloves.  Then  taking  from  the  drawer  a  beaver  hat,  he 
went  down,  and  out  of  the  house. 

It  was  midnight.  He  left  the  gate  open  behind  him,  and 
followed  the  road  through  the  woods  to  the  shore.  The  tide 
was  at  its  ebb.  His  heavy  boots  crushed  with  a  faint  sound 
the  bits  of  shell  on  the  sand.  No  living  thing  seemed  alive 
but  himself  and  a  crane,  disturbed  from  its  sleep  among  the 
reeds.  Tiny  waves  ran  up  to  the  shore  and  back  again,  and 
some  crabs  scuttled  swiftly  to  their  holes  as  though  frightened 
by  the  strange,  lonely  figure.  Across  the  harbor,  Anastasia 
Light  glowed  fitfully,  paled  by  the  white  moon.  Lopo  plodded 
on  with  bent  head  for  a  mile,  then  turned  into  a  lane  which 
led  to  the  old  Spanish  grave-yard.  No  tree  or  shrub  grew 
there,  only  the  brown  moss,  dotted  with  graves,  stretched 
down  to  the  shore.  The  ruins  of  a  chapel  stood  bare  and 
gaunt  in  the  pale  light,  with  vines  growing  over  its  shattered 
altar. 

Lopo  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  left  but  passed  on  to  a 
low  mound  near  the  water's  edge.  On  a  wooden  cross  at  its 
head,  painted  in  black  letters  were  the  words  : — 


88  St.   Augustine   Remnants. 

RACIIAEL, 

BELOVED    WIFE    OF    LOPO    SANCHEZ, 
BORN    1847,    DIED     l866. 


At  the  foot  of  the  cross  I  lived,  and  noiv  repose. 

He  laid  down  his  hat,  and  lovingly  stroked  the  brown  turf. 
The  shadow  ofthe  cross  fell  on  his  bent  head.  He  felt  he  was 
near  one  who  had  loved  him  and  who  would  understand.  Was 
not  the  only  living  thing  he  cared  for  about  to  leave  him,  and 
give  her  wealth  of  love,  which  never  had  been  his,  to  a  stranger? 
That  she  loved,  he  was  convinced ;  for  the  instant  her 
face  had  been  lifted  to  Dick's  rain  of  kisses — there  was  a  look 
there  he  had  never  seen  before  in  all  the  years  of  her  love- 
tendered  life.  She  had  always  shrunk  from  his  caresses — per 
haps  he  had  loved  her  too  well  —  he  had  heard  women  were 
sometimes  so.  Dick  would  come  on  the  morrow  and  ask 
him  for  his  all.  his  little  girl,  and  carry  her  North,  many 
weary  miles  away.  How  he  would  miss  the  click  of  her  little 
feet  about  the  house  ;  the  warmth  of  her  young  arms  about  his 
neck.  His  heart  shrank  before  the  vista  of  loneliness.  She 
should  not  go  poorly  to  her  husband  ;  he  would  give  her  the 
two  thousand  dollars  he  had  saved.  She  had  always  liked 
things  fine  and  gay;  well,  she  should  have  them.  Perhaps 
she  might  miss  the  old  peaceful  life  now  and  then,  and  come 


Prince  Charming  of  New  Tork.  89 

back  to  him  for  a  while,  but  he  thought  not.  Her  little  brown 
hands  would  grow  soft  and  white,  there  would  be  no  more 
cakes  to  make  or  chickens  to  feed.  She  would  have  many 
fine  horses  instead  of  old  Fly  Catcher,  and  ride  in  a  splendid 
carnage  instead  of  the  wooden  cart.  Yes,  he  would  tell  this 
fine  lover  on  the  morrow  to  take  her,  and  no  sign  should  escape 
him  of  any  selfish  pain. 

The  shadow  of  the  cross  had  passed  from  him  and  the  moon 
bathed  the  old  blue  coat  with  kindly  light.  He  was  still  sitting 
there  when  the  stars  paled  before  the  gold  and  rose  of  the 
coming  day. 


It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock.  Lopo  put  the  house  in  order  and 
ate  his  breakfast  alone.  He  had  stolen  several  times  to  Ria's 
door  on  tiptoe,  but  no  sound  reached  him.  He  supposed  she 
had  slept  but  little  during  the  night  and  felt  tired.  Had  he  not 
wandered  about  the  pine  barrens  all  night  in  sleepless  ecstasy 
when  Rachael  first  said  she  loved  him  ?  At  last  he  went  down 
to  the  beach,  pushed  oft'  the  skiff,  and,  rod  in  hand,  waited 
for  her  to  appear.  He  would  notice  nothing ;  lovers  were 
always  strange  and  shy  at  first. 

At  last  she  appeared  in  the  doorway.  He  saw  she  had  on 
her  white  Sunday  gown.  She  did  not  see  him,  but  stood 
motionless,  looking  up,  then  throwing  out  both  arms  with  a 
glad  little  movement  ran  down  and  out  to  the  garden.  An 

7 


90  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

hour  later,  when  Lopo  entered  the  house,  she  was  arranging 
great  masses  of  palm  branches  about  the  house.  Every  avail 
able  cup  and  vase  were  filled  with  roses.  Her  cheeks  glowed 
like  pomegranate  blossoms,  her  whole  being  radiated  youth 
and  hope.  During  the  day  nothing  was  said  on  either  side  of 
what  both  were  feeling  so  intensely.  After  their  noon  dinner, 
which  was  the  time  Mr.  Barclay  usually  came,  Lopo  put  on  a 
stiff  white  collar  and  his  polished  boots,  and  settled  himself  in 
elegant  leisure.  He  had  aged  during  the  night,  but  Ria  did 
not  observe  it.  A  rose  blossomed  in  the  girl's  hair  and  she  had 
carelessly  pinned  another  in  his  black  coat.  She  wandered 
restlessly  about  the  house,  starting  at  every  little  sound.  Tea- 
time  arrived.  The  girl  had  spread  the  table  herself,  studying 
the  placing  of  each  old  silver  spoon  and  flower.  The  sun 
slowly  sank  in  the  glowing  west  and  twilight  crept  up  from 
the  sea,  but  Dick  had  not  come.  They  finally  sat  down  to  the 
gay  little  table.  Both  made  feeble  efforts  at  conversation,  and 
once  at  a  sudden  noise  outside,  the  girl  half  rose  from  the  table 
flushing,  then  paling. 

"The  Fly  Catcher  seems  uneasy  tonight,"  the  old  man  care 
lessly  remarked,  a  dull  pain  at  his  heart  as  he  saw  the  chill 
gray  look  settle  on  the  girl's  face. 

The  stars  came  out  one  by  one  in  the  deep  vault  above — 
the  beauty  and  peace  of  the  evening  before  were  still  there, 
but  neither  knew  it.  Both  were  listening  for  the  sound  of  a 


Prince  Charming  of  New  Tork.  91 

horse  which  did  not  come.  Ria  had  grown  strangely  quiet. 
Lopo  could  see  her  white  face  through  the  dusk  as  she  sat  on 
the  topmost  step  of  the  piazza,  looking  intently  into  the  dark 
shadows  of  the  trees.  Ten,  eleven  o'clock.  Ria  had  crept  into 
her  father's  arms,  her  face  hidden  in  his  neck.  The  little  rose 
was  quite  faded,  and  the  muslin  gown  was  starchless  and  rum 
pled.  They  sat  quietly,  saying  nothing,  his  hand  stroking  the 
tossed  curls  on  his  shoulder.  It  was  difficult  to  tell  which 
suffered  more.  Slow  tears  rose  to  Lopo's  old  eyes  and  ran 
down  the  natural  gullies  of  his  furrowed  cheeks,  to  the  slim 
arm  which  wound  itself  about  his  throat.  They  gradually 
made  a  little  damp  spot  on  the  thin  sleeve.  She  stirred  and 
passed  her  hand  over  his  face. 

"Will  he  never  come?"  she  sobbed  at  last. 

"I'm  afraid  he  never  will,  daughter,"  was  the  answer.  And 
he  never  did. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  PAIR  OF  SHOES. 

CHAPTER  I. 

MY  troubles  and  013*  happiness  began  in  St.  Augustine, 
March  17,  at  precisely  half  after  three  in  the  afternoon. 

The  day  had  been  fearfully  warm,  and  tired  of  the  chatter 
and  buzz  of  the  hotel  piazzas,  I  tucked  a  volume  of  Emerson 
in  my  pocket  and  fled  down  to  the  water  for  a  quiet  pipe. 
Taking  a  row  boat  I  paddled  out,  but  the  sun  proved  too 
ardent  even  there.  I  was  about  to  give  it  up,  when  I  spied  the 
long  pier  which  juts  out  over  the  water  two  or  three  hundred 
feet.  It  would  certainly  be  cool  under  there  I  thought ;  and 
was  soon  in  its  shadow.  I  tied  the  boat  to  the  barnacled  posts, 
shipped  oars,  and  stretched  myself  full  length  in  the  bottom  of 
the  boat.  The  light  filtered  dimly  through  the  cracks  of  the 
boards  above,  and  the  tide  gently  swayed  the  boat  as  it  gurgled 
and  swirled  round  the  great  palmettoes  which  formed  the 
piles. 

Emerson  held  my  interest  for  awhile,  but  the  green,  waver 
ing  light  blurred  the  page.  Gradually  mv  eves  closed,  and  I 
was  fast  asleep.  In  the  midst  of  a  most  interesting  dream, 
where  I  was  reciting  poems  to  a  row  of  crabs  perched  on  their 
hind  legs  on  the  edge  of  the  boat,  I  was  awakened  by  the  sound 


The  Romance  of  a  Pair  of  Shoes.  93 

of  voices.  The  faint  tones  surged  around  me;  but  whether 
they  came  from  the  mermaids  below,  or  the  above  mentioned 
crabs,  I  could  not  for  a  moment  tell. 

Suddenly  I  discovered,  dangling  almost  over  my  head,  a  small 
pair  of  feet.  They  were  encased  in  a  remarkably  well  made 
pair  of  patent  leather  shoes,  evidently  new,  as  the  number, 
"2  a"  was  distinctly  marked  in  the  curve  of  the  heel.  The 
little  toes  were  pointed,  and  from  them  rose  a  beautifully 
curved  instep,  clad  in  dark  blue  stockings,  embroidered  with 
tiny  white  polka  dots,  though  these  were  almost  lost  in  a  foamy 
mass  of  lace-edged  draperies. 

This  bewitching  pair  of  feet  dangled  not  three  yards  from 
my  astonished  visage,  but  in  vain  I  stretched  and  twisted  for  a 
glimpse  of  their  owner.  She  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
pier  and  with  her  a  man,  whose  voice  only  betrayed  his 
presence. 

The  gurgling  of  the  water  dulled  their  conversation,  but 
words  floated  down  to  me.  Suddenly  my  now  thoroughly 
awakened  ears  heard  the  deeper  voice  say : 

"But  you  must  have  known  I  loved  you  all  this  time, dear?" 
And  the  girl's  voice  in  ardent  protest ; — 

"Why  of  course  1  knew  you  loved  me,  as  I  did  you,  Jack; 
but  after  all  these  years  of  boy  and  girl  affection,  I  never 
dreamed  of  this.  I  thought  men  never  fell  in  love  with  their 
sisters." 


94  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

Great  heavens,  here  was  a  state  of  things  !  What  should  I 
do?  If  I  moved  they  would  know  it — if  I  stayed,  to  what 
depths  of  perfidy  might  I  not  be  the  innocent  victim?  Im 
pulse  prompted  me  to  row  out  from  under  them  at  once,  but  I 
hated  to  cause  the  owner  of  those  pretty  patent  leathers  such 
embarrassment.  Besides  I  didn't  know  them,  and  probably 
never  would  :  so  in  a  whirl  of  mortification  I  lay  down  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat  again,  with  my  fingers  in  my  ears. 

The  words  became  inaudible,  but  those  little  dangling  feet 
seemed  to  have  a  language  all  their  own.  They  twitched  and 
beat  the  air  in  paroxisms  of  either  grief  or  wrath  as  "Jack's" 
tones  grew  louder,  and  hung  limply  down,  as  his  pleadings 
waxed  pathetic.  I  felt  sure  she  was  pretty  as  well  as  clever. 

For  quite  half  an  hour  I  laid  there  scarcely  daring  to  breathe, 
and  studied  every  line  of  the  arched  instep,  slender  heel,  and 
even  counted  the  polka  dots.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  I  re 
frained  from  tying  the  strings  which  her  nervousness  had  un 
done.  I  found  myself  growing  anxious.  Was  she  going  to 
accept  him?  I  began  to  hate  "Jack."  Bother  the  fellow — 
why  couldn't  he  take  "no"  and  quit? 

Who  could  she  be  ?  I  searched  my  memory  for  all  the  shoes 
of  the  women  I  had  met,  but  no  such  patent  leathers  crossed 
my  mental  vision.  The  voice  only  seemed  a  bit  familiar,  but 
the  splash  of  the  water  made  that  too  indistinct  to  place.  And 
"Jack,"  who  was  he? 


The  Romance  of  a  Pair  of  Shoes.  95 

Gradually  *my  curiosity  and  interest  grew  to  a  resolve  to 
know  the  owner  of  those  feet.  St.  Augustine  was  compara 
tively  a  small  place.  Surely  I  could  trace  her  by  those  very 
shoes  and  polka  dots  ;  or  else  listen  for  the  name  of  "Jack"  on 
piazzas,  and  haunt  hotel  registers  till  I  found  him,  and  then  her. 

As  this  resolved  itself  in  my  cerebrum,  the  feet  suddenly 
disappeared,  first  one,  then  the  other,  leaving  empty  air  and  a 
lonely  feeling  somewhere  within  me.  A  rustle  of  readjusted 
skirts  and  the  tramp  of  heavy  feet  on  the  boards  above  me.  I 
grasped  the  oars  and  flew  out  from  underneath,  to  see  this  so 
far  bodiless  girl.  But  alas  !  they  had  vanished.  A  pile  of 
lumber  obstructed  all  view,  and  they  quickly  reached,  and 
were  lost  in  the  crowd  on  the  Plaza. 

It  was  nearly  twilight  when  I  reached  my  hotel. 
The  tiny,  colored  lights  which  served  as  illumination  for  the 
great  central  court,  gleamed  faintly  among  the  palms  and 
creepers.  The  moon  above  gleamed  adown  one  side  of  the 
building,  showing  bits  of  carving,  and  leaving  the  depths  of 
the  loggias  in  profound  shadow. 

Entering  the  deserted  rotunda  I  instinctively  looked  about 
for  any  feminine  figures,  but  only  one  "was  visible — she  of 
mammoth  proportions,  and  evidently  not  a  wearer  of  "num 
ber  2  s."  While  dressing,  and  all  through  dinner,  I  was 
haunted  by  those  polka  dots,  and  that  half  heard  caressing 
voice. 


96  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

My  seat  for  several  weeks  had  been  at  Mrs.  Cabot's  table. 
She  was  from  Boston,  and  was  acting  as  chaperone  to  her 
niece,  Miss  Randolph,  a  charming  New  York  girl.  Mrs. 
Cabot  was  as  true  a  type  of  the  former  place  as  her  niece  was 
of  her  native  city.  SlTe  was  thin,  pale  and  highly  finished. 
Her  native  east  wind  seemed  to  blow  all  frivolity  from  her 
proximity,  leaving  an  atmosphere  of  rather  depressed  refine 
ment.  One  felt  it  always  vulgar  to  be  anything  but  resigned  to 
the  incongruities  of  life  in  her  presence. 

Not  so  her  niece  however.  She  had  the  half  flirtatious, 
but  wholly  fetching  air  of  the  average  New  York  girl.  Her 
tall  and  slender  figure  was  always  draped  and  tailored  artisti 
cally.  She  affected  large  hats,  which  admirably  set  off' her 
golden-brown  hair,  and  rose-leaf  complexion.  Her  open  and 
childlike  glance  was  a  constant  foil  for  her  fashionable  tricks  of 
speech  and  gesture.  She  was  both  worldly  and  innocent,  but 
with  a  fund  of  common  sense  which  prevented  an  exaggeration 
of  either. 

They  left  the  table  before  me,  and  while  cooling  my  coffee, 
I  considered  the  advisability  of  calling  her  womanly  shrewd 
ness  to  my  aid.  But  on  the  other  hand,  I  dreaded  that  direct 
gaze  of  astonishment  when  she  should  learn  of  my  idiocy. 
That  I  should  find  the  owner  of  those  patent-leathers  I  was  de 
termined,  but  how  to  do  it?  Suddenly  a  brilliant  idea  struck 
me. 


The  Romance  of  a  Pair  of  Shoes.  97 

Shoes  were  always  blackened,  varnished  or  oiled,  and  for 
that  purpose  were  placed  outside  the  doors  at  night.  Eu 
reka  !  I  would  search  the  midnight  corridors  above  till  I  found 
them  ;  get  number  of  room,  inquire  at  office  —  nothing  easier. 
"All  is  fair  in  love  and  war."  And  then  "Jack"  !  with  skill  I 
could  learn  the  names  of  the  numberless  young  men  one  con 
stantly  met  in  this  free  and  easy  life.  If,  however,  all  my 
plans  should  fail,  I  would  take  Miss  Randolph  into  my  confi 
dence.  There  would  be  no  risk  in  this,  as  I  had  been  with 
her  constantly,  and  had  never  seen  her  pretty  feet  in  anything 
but  tennis  shoes  or  button  boots. 

My  coffee  and  cogitations  finished,  I  sauntered  out  from  the 
brilliant  dining-room  to  the  rotunda.  Men  and  women  in 
evening  dress  sat  or  strolled  about.  Little  groups  were  con 
stantly  forming  and  breaking,  like  bits  of  color  in  a  kaleidoscope- 
Here  and  there  among  the  columns,  pretty  women  sat, 
around  whom  clustered  an  ever  changing  number  of  black 
coats. 

In  one  of  these  groups  was  Miss  Randolph,  her  delicate  face 
slightly  flushed  by  the  heat,  and  the  effort  of  being  heard  in  the 
noise  and  confusion.  I  instinctively  went  toward  her,  but 
thought  "business  before  pleasure."  So  I  sauntered  here  and 
there,  my  eyes  glued  to  the  floor,  snatching  side-long  glances 
at  the  slippers,  shoes  and  boots  peeping  from  under  draperies. 
But  to  no  purpose. 


98  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

Then  I  went  to  the  hotel  register.  With  outward  calm  but 
inward  trepidation,  I  turned  the  pages  and  eagerly  searched  for 
anything  beginning  with  J.  Several  Jacobs,  Johnstons  and 
Jones,  were  there,  but  no  " Jacks." 

"Of  course,"  I  concluded,  "he  wouldn't  register  himself  so — 
how  stupid  of  me!"  I  decided  to  give  up  my  quest  for  the 
present,  and  wait  till  the  feminine  portion  of  the  guests  had  re 
tired.  Then  would  I  carry  out  my  clever  scheme  in  the  silent 
halls  above.  I  decided  to  wait  till  midnight.  Everyone  would 
surely  be  abed  by  that  time,  and  besides,  I  might  be  mistaken 
for  a  midnight  marauder  if  seen  prowling  far  from  my  own 
quarters.  So  I  smoked  and  dreamed  of  those  polka-dots  till 
everyone  had  retired,  save  some  sleepy  hall-boys,  and  a  sleepier 
clerk  at  the  desk. 

I  got  oft'  the  lift  at  my  own  floor  to  avoid  suspicion.  The 
electric  lights  were  mostly  out.  In  the  dimness  a  vista  of 
door-mats  and  occasional  boots  and  shoes  stretched  away  on 
either  hand.  The  big  affairs  I  steered  clear  of,  but  darted 
hither  and  thither  among  smaller  shoes.  Such  shapes  and 
sizes  of  leather  foot  gear  may  I  never  meet  again  !  Surely  the 
average  American  foot  is  not  the  fairy-like  thing  we  so  fondly 
imagine.  Up  and  down  the  halls  I  wandered,  getting  more 
and  more  nervous,  but  to  no  purpose.  Once,  as  I  stooped  to 
examine  a  possible  pair,  the  door  suddenly  opened  and  a  curl- 
papered  face  glared  at  me  and  then  vanished  with  a  slam  of 


The  Romance  of  a  Pair  of  Shoes.  99 

the  door.  She  evidently  thought  me  a  lunatic  or  a  thief.  Then 
again  I  darted  across  the  hall  and  dropped  to  my  knees  on  a 
door-mat,  as  a  bell-boy  flew  round  the  corner,  a  pitcher  of  ice- 
water  borne  on  high. 

"Is  enything  happened  to  yo'  sah?"  he  asked,  with  an  evi 
dent  suspicion  of  intoxication. 

"No,"  I  exclaimed,  energetically,  ;ionly  stumbled  a  little." 
But  I  know  the  little  darkie  thought  he  knew  better. 

Having  explored  every  door  to  the  very  attic,  I  concluded  I 
had  been  a  fool  long  enough  for  that  night,  and  would  wait 
till  morning  for  a  continuation  of  that  character. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE  next  morning  found  me  still  on  patent  leathers  intent 
though  while  dressing  I  could  not  help  laughing  at  the 
spectacle  I  must  have  presented  the  night  before.  However,  I 
was  still  resolved  to  do  the  same  thing  at  every  respectable 
hotel  in  the  place  till  I  had  exhausted  the  supply. 

All  that  day  my  gaze  refused  to  wander  heavenward.  Out 
sailing  that  morning  and  at  tennis  that  afternoon,  I  searched 
the  "little  mice  peeping  in  and  out"  of  my  feminine  compan 
ions  in  vain.  My  subtle  scheme  to  learn  the  masculine  Chris 
tian  names  did  me  credit. 

That  night  I  circumnavigated  the  halls  of  two  hotels  in 
vain,  and  so  it  went  on  for  several  days.  At  last  one  day 
while  watching  the  swimmers  in  the  great  pool,  I  heard  a 
girl's  voice  say  (not  the  voice)  from  the  other  side  of  a  col 
umn  : 

"I  wish  Jack  Townsend  would  go  in;  he  is  a  famous 
swimmer."  I  started.  I  gasped  for  breath  !  Rushing  round 
the  column,  I  eyed  the  girl  in  such  a  way  that  she  looked 
frightened.  But  I  did  not  know  her,  and  felt  certain  I  had 
never  seen  her  with  any  one  I  did  know.  "Jack  —  Jack 
Townsend,"  he  was  the  man.  I  felt  it ;  I  knew  it.  Yet  how 
to  find  him.  He  might  be  one  of  the  group  then  entering; 
but  still  he  was  as  far  from  me  as  the  North  Pole. 


The  Romance  of  a  Pair  of  Shoes.  101 

All  that  day  I  asked  every  one  I  met  if  they  knew  Jack 
Townsend,  but  always  to  be  disappointed.  I  again  searched 
hotel  registers,  and  at  last  found  his  autograph  at  the  Can- 
ova  in  a  firm  finished  hand,  and  "New  York"  after  the 
name.  I  gave  the  clerk  my  most  effective  smile. 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  Mr.  Townsend  is  like?"  I  asked. 
"I  am  anxious  to  know  if  he  is  the  same  person  I  met  some 
time  since." 

"No,"  he  replied,  with  lofty  indifference,  and  a  supercilious 
stare  at  my  disappointed  countenance:  "I  can't  remember  all 
the  transient  guests  of  this  house." 

With  a  sigh  I  turned  away.  Almost  had  I  reached  him, 
but  a  miss  was  as  bad  as  a  mile. 

That  afternoon,  while  riding  in  the  pine  woods,  I  passed  a 
merry  party  also  a  cheval.  As  they  cantered  by  me,  a  girl's 
voice  cried:  "This  way,  Mr.  Morris,  you  know  we  agreed  to 
meet  Mr.  Townsend  out  here." 

My  heart  gave  a  bound ;  and  whipping  up  my  horse,  I 
trotted  after  to  join  the  party,  several  of  whom  1  knew.  "At 
last,"  I  murmured,  "the  enemy  is  mine  !  " 

Half  a  mile  on  I  joined  them,  just  as  a  tall,  thin  man  on  a 
short,  fat  horse  met  them.  Could  this  gray-haired,  solemn 
visaged  person  be  the  "Jack"  whose  manly  young  voice  had 
said  "I  love  you"  with  such  feeling?  They  were  all  chatter 
ing  around  me,  and  I  roused  myself  when  one  of  the  women 


102  St.  Augustine    Remnants. 

introduced  him  to  me  as  "Mr.  Townsend."  "He  is  my 
Uncle  Jack,"  she  added. 

"It  is  warm  riding,  eh?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice  which  made 
me  think  of  "Hark  from  the  tombs  a  doleful  sound."  I 
turned  away  in  disgusted  despair,  and  excusing  myself,  rode 
homeward.  I  was  as  far  as  ever  from  those  adorable  patent 
leathers. 

A  few  days  after  Miss  Randolph,  having  gone  off  vvitli 
another  man  for  the  morning,  had  left  me  in  a  •  decidedly 
sulky  frame  of  mind.  There  was  no  use  in  my  devoting  my 
self  to  another  girl,  as  she  was  not  there  to  see ;  so  I  started 
off  for  a  solitary  stroll.  Having  often  heard  of  the  picturesque 
quaintness  of  "Africa,"  the  so-called  negro  quarter,  I  turned 
my  steps  toward  that  dark  portion  of  the  globe. 

I  passed  the  Casino  with  its  stretches  of  lawn  and  shrub 
bery,  on  through  a  narrow  street,  to  find  myself  indeed  in  a 
strange  land.  Everything  was  black  which  should  have  been 
white,  from  the  faces  around  me  to  the  pickaninnies'  pinafores, 
which  were  the  blackest  of  all.  Tiny  cabins  edged  the  road, 
their  holes  and  gaps  smothered  in  jasmine  vines  and  creepers. 
Shiny  black  children  rolled  in  the  dirt  about  the  steps,  while 
their  elders  lolled  over  the  broken-down  fences  smoking  their 
pipes,  and  as  free  from  all  signs  of  care  as  any  of  our  "coupon- 
cutters"  of  Wall  Street. 

My  esthetic  enjoyment  was  brought  to  a  sudden  end  by  a 
sight  which  filled  my  very  soul  with  rapture.  My  long-sought 


The  Romance  of  a  Pair  of  Shoes.  103 

polka-dots  were  fluttering  gaily  in  the  breeze  not  ten  feet 
away !  There  on  a  line  they  dangled,  attenuated  and  damp, 
but  still  my  polka-dots.  In  a  trice  I  was  knocking  on  the 
mossy  lintel  of  the  door.  The  fattest  human  creature  mine 
eyes  had  beheld  since  my  boyhood  days  at  Barnum's  rolled 
toward  me,  shaking  the  unsubstantial  building  to  its  founda 
tions.  Her  round,  good-natured  face  beamed  a  shrewd  kind 
liness  on  me  as  I  said  : 

"Aunty,  I  notice  a  pair  of  stockings — er,  the  blue  ones. 
They  are  just  like  those  belonging  to — er — my — er" — 

"Yo'  lady,  sah?"  she  benevolently  interrupted.  "Why 
bress  yo'  soul,  de  Lawcl  hab  sent  yo'  sho'  'nuff.  Dem  stock 
ings  hab  gib  me  mo'  trouble  sah  !  Dey  done  come  here  in  de 
wash,  and  when  I  send  'em  back,  they  don't  b'long  to  no 
body.  I  done  gone  most  clean  crazy  wid  'em,  fur  [  nebber 
gits  my  close  mixed,  like  dem  washer-ladies  in  de  town, 
nohow.  Yo'  kin  ask  if  Aunt  Hetty  is  sich  a  po'  chile  es  dat." 

"Well,  Aunt  Hetty,"  I  replied,  with  some  embarrassment, 
"I  can't  be  quite  sure  that  they  do  belong  to  my — er — lady, 
though  she  has  some  like  them  which  I  should  like  to  find." 

Meanwhile  a  hundred  thoughts  whirled  through  my  brain. 
I  could  not  take  them,  surely  not.  But  why  not  take  one  of 
these  missing  links?  Aunt  Hetty  stood  there  stroking  them 
with  her  parboiled  fingers,  and  I  took  one  reverently  in  my 
hand. 


104  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

1  'After  all,"  I  said  to  her,  "I  don't  believe  they  are  quite 
like  my  lady's.  I  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  I'll  take  one  and 
inquire,  and  you  keep  the  other  in  case  the  owner  turns  up. 
If  she  should,  mind  now,  here  is  my  address.  Send  me  her 
name  and  address,  and  she  shall  receive  it  at  once, — see?" 

"Bress  yo'  soul,  honey,  dat'll  be  all  right,"  was  her  com 
forting  reply.  "My  ole  man  is  a  great  han'  fur  writen,  an' 
I'll  hab  him  do  it.  I's  powerful  weak  when  it  comes  to  plan- 
nin',  but  yo'  am  a  sho'  'nun0  manager,  he— he— he  !" 

So  I  left  the  smiling  vision  in  the  frame  of  the  doorway  and 
turned  homeward.  I  was  in  a  mingled  state  of  triumph  and 
dismay.  One  of  the  polka-dots  was  in  my  breast  pocket,  but 
I  refrained  from  looking  at  or  touching  it.  But  it  was  there, 
its  silken  texture  heaving  with  my  every  breath.  Surely 
Stanley  had  made  no  happier  discoveries  in  darkest  Africa 
than  had  I. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THAT  evening  the  annual  festivities  of  the  Yacht  Club 
were  given,  comprising  fireworks,  an  illuminated  yacht 
race,  and  ball  in  the  Club  house.  Miss  Randolph  was  to 
leave  the  following  day  for  Atlanta,  her  aunt  joining  her  later 
in  Washington.  We  had  been  asked  with  several  others  on 
the  yacht  which  was  to  lead  the  procession.  Every  vessel 
large  and  small  was  illuminated  from  bow  to  stern.  Japanese 
lanterns  outlined  each  mast  and  sail,  and  the  Club  house  was 
also  a  mass  of  twinkling  brightness.  As  the  first  flight  of 
rockets  burst  against  the  sky,  the  yachts  formed  in  proces 
sion  and  moved  about  the  harbor,  a  fleet  of  starry  splendor. 

Miss  Randolph  and  I  had  strolled  to  the  stern  of  our  yacht, 
and  stood  listening  to  the  music — admiring  the  novel  sight. 
She  was  in  her  ball-gown,  and  looked  a  fitting  part  of  the 
dreamy  beauty.  Suddenly  she  remembered  her  evening's 
mail  which  I  had  kept  in  my  pocket  for  her.  As  she  read 
her  letters,  I  thought  of  my  resolve  to  tell  her  the  history  of 
those  fateful  shoes  if  my  own  efforts  failed.  I  felt  that  her 
woman's  wit  might  solve  the  problem. 

She  looked  up  from  the  last  sheet  with  a  serious  and  pre 
occupied  face.  If  she  had  been  a  man  I  should  have  thought 

3 


106  St.  A iigustin e  Rent nants. 

"bills"  ;  but  being  an  attractive  girl  I  decided, — a  man.  But 
her  face  looking  pale  under  the  moon's  rays,  gradually  re 
gained  its  old  archness,  and  I  felt  my  way  to  the  matter  in  hand. 

"Miss  Randolph,"  I  said,  "does  a  woman  feel  flattered  at  a 
man's  confidence?" 

"In  herself?"  she  asked. 

"No,  a  confidence  given  her." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "that  depends  on  the  nature  of  the  con- 
dence.  If  about  himself,  yes." 

This  was  encouraging,  but  I  thought  she  eyed  me  some 
what  mockingly. 

"But  I  want  to  tell  you  something  very  much,"  I  said.  "It 
is  about  myself  in  a  way.  I  am  in  a  dilemma,  and  feel  sure 
you  can  help  me." 

She  looked  politely  interested,  and  I  plunged  into  my  story. 
At  the  commencement  she  expressed  no  opinion  of  my  eaves 
dropping  ;  but  as  I  described  the  tender  avovval  I  had  so  un 
wittingly  heard,  and  the  two  little  feet  dangling  so  near  me. 
she  said  : 

"Poor  girl,  I  hope  she'll  never  know.  But  he  must  have 
been  a  stupid  'Jack'  to  propose  in  broad  daylight,  right  after 
lunch.  He  might  have  known  he  would  get  'no.'  ' 

I  dwelt  lightly  on  my  search  for  the  shoes,  trying  to  place 
my  midnight  prowls  in  as  dignified  a  light  as  possible.  But 
at  this  part  of  the  story  she  laughed  immoderately. 


Romance  of  a   Pair  of   Shoes.  107 

"If  you  ever  do  meet  her,"  she  said,  "don't  tell  her  that; 
it  robs  the  situation  of  all  its  romance."  Then  she  sobered. 
"Poor  Jack;  he  is  probably  suffering  now  for  love  of  his  un 
loving  sweetheart."  Her  hand  smoothed  the  letter  she  held  : 
she  was  probably  pitying  the  writer  as  another  "Jack." 

The  polka-dots  I  had  kept  in  the  background.  I  instinc 
tively  felt  she  would  not  approve  the  presence  of  that  stolen 
property  at  that  moment  reposing  in  my  pocket.  She  listened 
to  all  I  had  to  say  with  interest,  but  not  with  the  degree  of 
sympathy  I  had  hoped  for.  When  I  finished  she  suddenly 
rose.  All  laughter  left  her  face. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "it  was  kind  of  you  to  tell  me  this.  I 
fear  I  can  do  nothing  to  help  you,  as  I  leave  to-morrow. 
I  hope  you  may  find  the  girl  after  I  am  gone,  and  that  she 
will  prove  worthy  of  your  labor.  She  is  certainly  fortunate 
to  have  you  so  literally  at  her  feet." 

She  gathered  up  her  shawl  and  moved  toward  another 
group.  I  somehow  felt  dismissed,  disapproved  of,  and,  yes, 
a  little  snubbed.  I  bowed  and  left  her,  and  strolled  away 
alone.  And  to-morrow  she  was  to  leave  !  How  I  wished  I 
had  not  told  her,  for  she  evidently  thought  me  idiotic.  The 
rest  of  the  evening  I  cursed  those  patent  leathers. 

At  breakfast  the  next  morning,  Miss  Randolph  chattered 
gaily,  and  treated  me  with  the  same  friendliness  as  of  yore. 
But  there  was,  after  all,  a  difference.  I  felt  it  in  her  cordial 


108  .SV.  Augustine  Remnants. 

' 'good-bye"  and  the  smiling  glance  she  threw  me  from  the  car 
window  as  the  train  moved  away.  At  all  events  she  was  not 
offended. 

The  hotel  seemed  strangely  silent  on  my  return.  I  knocked 
at  Mrs.  Cabot's  door,  hoping  for  a  little  pity  or  petting. 

"Come  in,"  she  said;  and  I  entered.  She  was  sitting  by 
the  window,  a  volume  of  Ibsen  on  her  knee,  and  I  drew  my 
chair  near  hers. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Cabot,  you  miss  Miss  Randolph  as  we  all  do," 
I  began. 

"More,"  she  answered.  "My  niece  is  charming  company 
for  me,  as  I  do  not  enjoy  hotel  life.  One  cannot  get  into 
sympathy  with  so  many  people." 

While  she  was  speaking  her  gaze  wandered  at  intervals 
beyond  me  in  a  conscious  wray,  and  she  spoke  absently.  I 
turned,  my  eyes  following  her  line  of  vision.  Suppressing  an 
exclamation  of  surprise,  I  leaped  from  my  chair  at  the  extraor 
dinary  sight  which  met  my  eyes. 

There  in  the  centre  of  a  huge  sheet  of  paper  nailed  to  the 
wall,  and  bordered  two  inches  deep  with  black,  hung  those  fate 
ful  patent  leathers  !  I  recognized  them  at  a  glance  as  they 
hung  from  the  nail,  bunches  of  immortelles  falling  out  of  them. 
Underneath,  in  big,  black  letters,  I  read  the  legend, — 
"To  the  memory  of  the  dear  departed." 

I  turned  to  Mrs.  Cabot  with  some  inarticulate  words. 


Romance  of  a  Pair  of  Shoes.  109 

"Yes,  they  are  my  niece's  shoes,"  she  drawled,  in  her  cool, 
even  voice.  "I  can't  imagine  why  she  left  them  there,  but 
she  begged  me  to  leave  them  for  a  day  or  two.  Yesterday 
afternoon  her  old  Aunt  Hetty,  as  she  calls  her,  was  here,  and 
they  apparently  had  some  joke  together.  It  is  a  little  strange, 
but  New  York  girls  are  always  somewhat  inexplicable  to  me." 

The  situation  was  now  clearly  before  me  in  all  its  awful- 
ness.  Alas  !  she  knew  everything,  even  the  polka-dots.  Suf 
fice  to  say  I  too  left  the  next  day  for  Atlanta,  and — well,  I  can 
now  afford  to  patronize  the  memory  of  "Jack." 


PRISCILLA  ALDEN. 

CHAPTER  I. 

IT  WAS  a  long  perspective  on  which  her  faded  eyes  looked 
down.  To  her  it  seemed  as  though  her  real  self  had  died 
a  long  time  ago,  in  the  past  which  ended  when  she  said  k 'good 
bye"  to  her  brief  girlhood  and  to  her  well-ordered,  thrifty  life 
in  the  New  England  town  where  she  was  born. 

She  remembered  the  neat,  white  house  with  its  wide  piazzas 
and  white,  fluted  columns,  on  which  the  elms  threw  flickering 
shadows  in  Summer,  and  whose  eaves  were  shrouded  with 
snow  in  \Vinter;  the  quiet  of  the  wide,  grass-grown  streets: 
the  green-shuttered  Meeting-house  opposite,  flanked  by  the 
post-office,  and  the  familiar  farmers  grouped  upon  the  well- 
worn  granite  steps. 

The  simple  life  had  rilled  every  nook  in  her  nature  :  of  the 
outside  world  she  knew  nothing,  and  cared  nothing  for. 
Those  sheltering  New  England  hills  had  for  twenty-five  years 
shut  out  all  care  and  anxiety.  Her  mother,  a  neutral  tinted 
woman,  had  always  been  ah  invalid,  whose  bodily  infirmities 
exacted  only  knitted  shawls  and  inactivity  of  mind  and  body. 

As  Priscilla  grew  into  girlhood,  the  administration  of  the 
household  fell  naturally  on  her  young  shoulders.  It  was  to 
her  that  her  father  looked  for  advice  as  to  the  management  of 


Priscitta    Alden.  Ill 

the  farm,  and  she  was  the  umpire  to  whom  he  appealed,  when 
old  Henny,  their  maid-of-all-work,  would  give  him  what  she 
called  a  "rootin',"  for  meddling  with  things  which  she  con 
sidered  none  of  his  business. 

Priscilla  had  been  well  educated,  first  at  the  village  school, 
and  finished  off  by  her  father,  who  had  graduated  from  Har 
vard  as  his  grandfathers  had  done  before  him.  It  was  he  who 

o 

kept  before  her  child-eyes  the  past  glories  of  the  house  of 
Alden,  — their  important  function  in  the  first  establishment  of 
civilization  in  this  country ;  and  it  was  his  ambition  to  live  up 
to  the  standard  of  his  ancestry,  as  far  as  his  limited  field  of  ac 
tion  allowed. 

Gideon  Alden  had  been  born  with  the  ineffaceable  impression 
that  he  was  not  as  other  men  are.  He  felt  that  he  was  a  genius, 
though  in  what  direction  his  gifts  tended,  neither  he  nor  his 
friends  had  been  able  to  decide.  He  had  married  at  twenty, 
and  was  still  a  comparatively  young  and  prepossessing  man. 
His  tall,  slender  figure  was  always  fastidiously  dressed  ;  he 
wore  his  hair  rather  long,  and  affected  loose,  flying  cravats. 
Among  his  towns-people  he  was  regarded  as  very  decorative 
and  accomplished,  though  not  of  much  practical  benefit.  They 
looked  upon  him  much  as  they  did  on  the  ornamental  cornice 
of  the  town-hall ;  as  a  "trimmin',"  but  of  no  real  use  to  the 
community.  At  the  public  meetings  he  was  always  a  con 
spicuous  figure,  and  his  resonant  voice  and  rounded  periods 


112  St.    Augustine   Remnants. 

always  commanded  attention  as  an  exponent  of  Harvard  elo 
quence. 

At  intervals  he  would  appear  in  his  most  beruffled  shirt  and 
highest  stock,  which  were  the  visible  signs  of  a  commercial 
mood  ;  and  on  these  occasions  he  would  go  to  Boston  for  days 
at  a  time,  to  return  with  an  elated  bearing,  sanguine  and  happy 
over  some  wonderful  scheme,  by  which  his  family  would  again 
take  the  position  to  which  he  considered  them  entitled.  For 
tune  was,  to  him,  always  hovering  benignly  in  the  near  future, 
and  this  assurance  gave  him  a  gentle  acquiescence  to  his  rather 
cramped  financial  status. 

As  a  child,  Priscilla  had  regarded  her  father  as  the  acme  of 
all  that  was  great  and  noble.  When  in  the  long  Winter  even 
ings  they  sat  around  the  wood-fire,  she  would  listen  with  wide 
admiring  eyes,  as  he  described  the  mysterious  world  beyond 
the  hills,  and  their  future  career  there  when  the  money  should 
begin  to  come  in.  With  graphic  emphasis  he  would  expatiate 
on  the  wealth  his  shrewd  investments  were  sure  to  bring. 

The  child,  in  her  dim,  fire-lit  corner,  would  watch  the  shad 
ows  flicker  on  the  portraits  of  her  Puritan  ancestors  upon  the 
wall,  until  they  seemed  to  wink  and  nod  an  assurance  of  the 
bright  life  which  awaited  her.  What  a  beautiful  world  it 
would  be;  what  untold  happiness  would  she  find  in  this  golden 
future  which  the  genii  were  preparing  for  her,  beyond  those 
snow-clad  hills. 


Pr  is  cilia    Aid  en.  113 

Time  passed  on,  and  the  child  became  a  woman  with  rea 
soning  powers,  which  gradually  awakened  her  from  fantastic 
dreams.  From  regarding  her  father  as  an  oracle  of  delightful 
truths,  she  began  to  realize  his  shallowness  and  visionary  pro 
clivities.  The  gradual  realization  of  his  vanity  and  selfishness 
at  first  hurt  her  keenly,  and  it  was  a  slow  and  painful  task  to 
reconstruct  her  impression  of  his  character,  —  to  exchange  her 
confiding  faith  in  him  for  a  sort  of  protecting  pity  for  the 
smallness  of  his  nature.  Her  newly  awakened  perception 
quickly  guaged  the  value  of  that  fairy-land  which  his  sanguine 
hopes  had  depicted,  and  by  degrees  her  doubts  resolved  into 
conviction,  that  he  was  deceiving  himself  as  well  as  them. 
But  at  last  he  grew  querulous  when  Henny  reminded  him  of 
unpaid  bills,  and  had  unusual  moods  of  silence. 

One  day  he  returned  from  Boston  and,  running  through  the 
house  and  up  to  his  wife's  room,  fell  on  his  knees  beside  her. 
"It  is  lost  —  all  lost,"  he  cried,  burying  his  white  face  in  her 
lap. 

Not  long  after,  the  house  was  sold.  Her  mother's  health 
gave  way  under  the  shock,  and  this,  with  the  necessity  of  an 
economy  which  they  did  not  care  to  exhibit  before  their  neigh 
bors,  made  it  easy  for  them  to  accept  the  doctor's  advice  to 
seek  a  Southern  climate.  The  letting  down  seemed  more  easy 
in  exchanging  the  bleak  farm  for  Florida,  and  the  early  No 
vember  snows  found  them  journeying  Southward.  To  Pris- 


114  St.    Augtistine   Remnants. 

cilia  the  journey  was  crowded  with  anxious  thought,  for  every 
turn  of  the  iron  wheels  carried  her  on  to  a  wide  sea  of  new  ex 
periences. 

In  those  days  the  locomotive  did  not  deign  to  visit  so  obscure 
and  remote  a  place  as  St.  Augustine.  The  only  approach  to 
it  was  by  a  rude  stage-coach,  which  three  times  a  week 
dragged  its  slow  length  for  fifteen  or  twenty  miles,  bringing 
the  mail  and  occasional  stranger.  The  girl  from  New  Eng 
land  gazed  about  her  with  intelligent  curiosity,  as  they  drove 
into  the  old  Spanish  town,  beneath  the  row  of  water-oaks, 
which  were  then  young  like  herself,  but  have  now  grown  into 
veritable  gray-beards,  whispering  sadly  among  themselves  of 
the  changes  which  have  sprung  up  about  them. 

In  the  starlight,  strange,  white-walled  houses  rose  on  every 
side,  their  over-hanging  balconies  seeming  almost  to  meet. 
The  tinkle  of  a  guitar  from  a  shadowy  door-way,  the  quaint 
Plaza  with  its  moss-draped  trees  and  ancient  Cathedral,  all 
seemed  to  the  girl  like  a  bit  of  Spain,  which  had  Moated  across 
the  Atlantic  to  be  lodged  among  the  palmettos. 

The  next  day  found  Priscilla,  with  the  buoyancy  of  youth, 
beginning  to  construct  a  new  world  for  themselves.  Tier 
father  seemed  to  think  he  had  done  his  share  of  unappreciated 
toil  and  left  everything  in  her  hands.  They  secured  a  modest 
house  on  Charlotte  Street,  vine-clad  and  roomy,  and  here 
Priscilla  arranged  the  household  gods  which  they  had 


Priscilla    Alden.  115 

orought  with  them,  as  much  like  the  old  home  as  possible. 
The  Puritan  forefathers  looked  down  on  them  in  be-wigged 
wonder  from  the  coquina  walls,  and  the  tall  clock  ticked  from 
the  corner  as  of  yore.  In  the  corner  of  the  parlor  were  the 
collection  of  daguerrotypes ;  the  silver  candle-sticks  on  the 
mantel  were  flanked  by  a  print  of  George  Washington  and 
a  sampler  depicting  a  weeping-willow  and  family  of  thirteen 
children  kneeling  round  a  tomb.  But  in  spite  of  Priscilla's 
efforts,  it  all  seemed  sadly  strange.  Her  mother  seemed  to 
feel  it  most  keenly.  At  first,  as  she  lay  on  the  rose-scented  bal 
cony,  inhaling  the  soft  air,  a  little  color  crept  into  her  cheeks, 
but,  as  the  months  went  by,  Priscilla  knew  she  was  fading. 

Her  father  adopted  the  new  order  of  things  more  easily. 
He  evolved  schemes  for  regenerating  the  South,  and  arranged 
his  neckties  as  artistically  as  of  yore.  His  days  were  spent 
chiefly  sitting  in  the  sun  on  the  Plaza,  or  talking  to  the  natives, 
who  were  only  too  glad  to  find  a  new  idler  to  amuse  them. 

Priscilla  felt  that  she  was  a  square  peg  in  a  round  hole. 
Her  thrift  and  mental  briskness  were  not  understood  by  her 
neighbors,  and  they  resented  these  as  a  reproach  to  themselves. 
The  odd  ways  of  'fcdem  Northerners"  were  reported  by  the  as 
tonished  Chloe,  whom  Priscilla  stood  over  until  every  nook 
and  cranny  was  made  to  yield  up  its  store  of  hoarded  spiders 
and  dust.  Every  piece  of  furniture  was  put  through  a  course 
of  scrubbing  and  polishing,  at  which  Chloe  would  continually 
mutter  to  herself,  "Well,  I  nebber." 


116  St.    Augustine    Remnants. 

Then  the  weed-choked  garden  was  marked  off  in  irreproach 
able  paths  and  beds,  and  seeds  of  hollihocks,  ragged- robbins 
and  pansies  from  the  old  home  were  planted.  The  broken- 
down  fence  had  new  life  and  new  pickets  put  into  it  and  was 
painted  a  vivid  white. 

When  order  reigned  everywhere  within  the  pale  of  home, 
Priscilla  turned  her  cool,  gray  eyes  upon  her  moral  and  social 
surroundings.  Her  father's  acquaintances  of  the  Plaza  had 
become  interested  and  sent  their  wives  to  call.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Vinci  Lopez,  her  next  door  neighbors,  declaimed  their  descent 
from  a  Spanish  grandee,  during  the  first  half  hour  of  acquaint 
anceship,  and  proved  their  cordiality  by  sending  every  day  one 
of  their  seven  dark-eyed  children  to  borrow  a  little  tea  or  sugar 
and  other  household  commodities,  —  all,  however,  in  quantities 
too  small  to  be  worth  returning.  They  were  all  kind  and  anx 
ious  to  make  the  new-comers  as  much  at  their  ease  as  they 
were  themselves. 

Priscilla  soon  found  that  there  was  to  be  no  outlet  for  her 
New  England  proclivities.  There  were  no  husking-bees,  no 
warm  stockings  or  mittens  to  knit  for  the  farm-hands  ;  and  as 
to  the  poor,  they  seemed  to  be  the  most  happy  and  contented 
of  them  all.  She  looked  up  the  Protestant  church  of  the  place, 
which  she  found  to  be  Episcopal ;  a  newly  organized  and 
struggling  congregation,  under  the  rectorship  of  Doctor  Ran- 
kin,  a  refined,  well-educated,  but  dreamy  old  man,  hardly 


Priscilla    Alden.  117 

equal  to  the  exigencies  of  his  position.  Priscilla  could  not 
feel  at  home  there.  The  form  and  ritualism  seemed  strange  to 
her  orthodox  mind  and  smacked  of  "popery."  She  got  quite 
flustered  Sunday  mornings,  hunting  for  the  places  in  her  new 
prayer-book,  and  the  new-fangled  hymns  she  found  it  difficult 
to  follow.  She  then  interested  herself  in  the  seven  uncared-for 
children  next  door  ;  at  first  winning  their  confidence  by  cookies, 
then  trying  to  instil  under  their  tangled  curls  some  rudiments 
of  learning  and  personal  neatness,  but  in  vain.  As  long  as 
cookies  held  out  they  were  docile  enough,  but  with  their  dis 
appearance  they  returned  to  the  sun  outside  and  laughed  and 
rolled  in  the  sand,  regardless  of  all  laws  save  those  of  sleep  and 
hunger. 

The  very  poor  also  did  not  seem  to  need  her.  Some  oysters 
from  the  harbor  to  eat,  the  sun  to  warm  them  and  a  calico 
gown  made  their  sum  of  happiness,  and  any  overtures  from 
the  "Yankee  woman"  were  resented  as  interference.  Occa 
sionally  a  party  of  Northerners  would  linger  in  the  quaint,  old 
city  for  a  while,  but  \vith  the  first  hot  days  of  early  Spring 
they  would  disappear.  These  people  she  rarely  met,  so  her 
life  narrowed  down  to  but  little  beyond  her  own  garden. 

Much  of  her  time  was  given  to  her  mother,  who  soon  found 
it  impossible  to  make  her  daily  journey  to  the  jasmine-covered 
balcony.  A  year,  two  years  passed,  in  which  Priscilla  knew 
little  beyond  the  needs  of  the  mother  who  had  been  her  dear- 


118  ,S'/.    Augustine    Remnants. 

est  treasure.  At  last  one  day  she  fell  asleep.  They  buried 
her  in  the  little  graveyard,  in  the  shadow  of  the  white  pyra 
mids  under  which  the  murdered  Huguenots  sleep,  and  in  her 
grave  were  left  Priscilla's  last  hopes.  Her  youth  was  over. 
She  grew  silent  and  was  much  alone.  Threads  of  gray  were 
seen  among  the  brown  hair,  which  she  wore  plainly  off  her 
forehead.  Lines  appeared  in  her  cheeks,  from  which  the  roses 
of  youth  had  fled.  She  knew  it,  and  would  smile  grimly  to 
herself  in  her  little  mirror  under  the  eaves.  Who  was  to  care? 
Her  father  seemed  to  have  the  facility  of  throwing  unpleasant 
truths  away,  as  a  boy  would  toss  away  a  pebble.  He  slept, 
ate  and  smiled  as  of  yore.  One  of  his  Spanish  friends  had 
taught  him  the  guitar,  and  he  would  sit  in  the  twilight  singing 
their  weird  love-songs,  his  fine  profile  turned  to  Priscilla's 
tired  eyes.  He  had  acquired  the  habit  of  sitting  by  the  hour 
on  the  end  of  the  wharf,  wratching  the  sailboats  and  gulls 
floating  about  the  harbor.  Pris'cilla  of  late  had  seen  but  little 
of  him.  He  sometimes  stayed  away  all  day,  to  return  at  night 
gay  and  debonnair  and  chide  her  for  her  quiet  life. 

41  Why  don't  you  stir  up  a  bit?"  he  would  ask.  "'and  make 
friends  as  I  do?  There  are  a  number  of  people  quite  worth 
talking  to." 

Time  glided  monotonously  by.  She  only  marked  the  sea 
sons  by  the  falling  of  the  oak  leaves  from  the  great  trees  on  the 
Plaza  and  the  increased  stagnation  of  the  town  in  the  Summer 
months. 


CHAPTER  IT. 

ONE  soft  evening  in  March,  Priscilla  was  sitting  in  the 
shadows  of  the  vine  on  the  lower  piazza.  From  across 
the  way  the  tinkle  of  a  guitar  and  occasional  laughter  floated  to 
her  inattentive  ears.  She  was  wondering  if  her  life  was  always 
to  follow  its  present  monotonous  channel.  The  past  few  years 
had  been  very  desolate.  She  longed  for  the  scents  and  sounds 
of  her  old  home.  In  a  few  weeks  the  apple-boughs  would  be 
laden,  with  their  pink  blossoms  ;  —  how  sweet  were  those  North 
ern  Springs  !  But  those  apple-blossoms  were  a  thousand  miles 
away  .and  there  was  no  money  to  carry  her  back  to  them.  She 
saw  her  life  as  it  might  have  been. 

"Perhaps,"  she  thought,  "I  might  have  had  a  lover  like 
other  women.  Some  one  to  love  and  care  for  me  ;  a  home  of 
my  own,  and  children.  I  wonder  whether  it  is  myself  or  cir 
cumstances  which  is  at  fault?  All  women,  I  thought,  had 
some  one  whose  whole  affections  were  theirs.  But  I  have 
never  had  any  one." 

She  was  luxuriating  in  a  vague  pity  for  herself,  when  she 
brought  herself  up  with  a  turn. 

"Priscilla  Alden,"  she  said  half  audibly,  "are  you  losing 
•your  head?  Hciven't  you  more  sense  than  to  sit  here  mooning, 
and  wondering  what  the  use  of  living  is,  when  you  know 


120  St.    Augustine   Remnants. 

you've  a  father  who  doesn't  know  enough  to  come  in  when  it 
rains?  How  would  he  get  along  without  you,  I  wonder;  who 
is  there  to  care  for  him  ?  "  The  thought  comforted  her. 

As  the  words  died  on  her  lips,  she  heard  a  sound  at  the  gate 
and,  looking  up,  saw  two  persons  coming  up  the  path.  One 
she  recognized  as  her  father,  and  by  his  side  was  a  girlish 
figure  apparently  hanging  back  as  though  loth  to  follow.  She 
heard  her  father's  voice  in  gentle  protest,  as  he  urged  her  for 
ward.  They  reached  the  steps.  Priscilla,  with  a  cold  thrill 
of  premonition,  stepped  out  of  the  shadow  and  stood,  a  tall, 
severe  figure,  in  the  full  light  of  the  moon. 

"Who  is  this,  father?"  she  asked. 

"Now  don't  excite  yourself,  Priscilla, — you  will  welcome 
my  wife  cordially."  Then,  turning  to  the  girl,  —  "This  is 
my  daughter,  and  I  feel  sure  you  will  soon  be  good  friends." 

For  a  moment  all  was  blurred  to  Priscilla's  vision.  The 
mockingbird's  roulades  from  a  neighboring  tree  seemed  faint 
and  far  away.  Then  she  took  a  deep  breath  and  looked  at  the 
girl.  A  face  was  upturned  to  hers  in  which  beauty  and  bloom 
were  combined  with  the  weakness  of  a  child.  A  pair  of  dark 
eyes  searching  hers  with  some  timidity.  Priscilla  held  out 
her  hand.  "This  is  of  course  a  surprise  to  me."  With  rather 
ironic  smile  she  turned  to  her  father.  "I  wrill  try  to  be  a 
good  mother  to  your  wife," — then  turned  and  fled  up  the 
creaking  stairs  to  her  room. 


Priscilla    Aldev .  121 

For  several  days  they  all  three  were  self-conscious,  but  they 
soon,  at  least  outwardly,  adapted  themselves  to  circumstances. 
Carmona  soon  forgot  any  awkwardness  of  her  position  and 
flitted  about  the  once  quiet  house  like  a  bird  of  brilliant  plum 
age.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the  light-house  keeper  and  had  a 
little  patrimony  of  her  own.  A  piano  was  bought,  and  soon 
waltzes  and  negro  melodies  echoed  through  the  rooms,  which 
before  had  only  resounded  to  the  stately  tunes  of  "China," 
"•Duke  Street"  and  "Hamburg,"  which  Priscilla  had  sung  as  a 
child  in  the  white  and  green  meeting-house  under  the  elms. 

These  two  women  could  not  understand  each  other.  One 
grave,  methodical,  with  a  conscience  keenly  alive  to  all  devia 
tions  from  the  strictest  propriety  :  the  other  gay,  inconsequent, 
oblivious  of  everything  save  the  amusing  side  of  life.  But  Pris 
cilla  came  gradually  to  like  the  girl,  from  the  very  necessity  of 
caring  for  her.  The  gay  little  gowns  were  to  be  mended  and 
the  rooms  tidied  up  after  her  twenty  times  a  day.  Carmona 
would  lie  about  like  a  kitten,  watching  Priscilla,  and  asking 
curious  questions.  Of  course  she  was  a  Romanist,  but  hardly 
an  orthodox  one.  She  had  somewhat  audacious  ideas  of  her 
own  in  regard  to  right  and  wrong,  and  an  accommodating  con 
science,  which  was  apt  to  stretch  to  suit  the  exigences  of  the 
hour.  Priscilla's  unswerving  code  of  religion  and  life  she  felt 
to  be  unreasonable,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  say  so.  Priscilla 
felt  in  a  way  responsible  for  these  heresies,  but  when  she  en- 

9 


122  St.    Augustine    Remnants. 

deavored  to  enlighten  her  young  step-mother,  she  was  met  by 
a  light  raillery  which  baffled  her. 

One  night  Priscilla  had  knelt  down  in  her  room  for  her 
nightly  prayer.  She  heard  the  door  open  and  Carmona's  soft 
steps  enter  and  pause  in  the  center  of  the  room.  She  kept  on 
to  the  audible  "amen,"  and  rose.  The  girl  was  standing  in  the 
center  of  the  room,  with  disheveled  curls,  and  with  a  sharp, 
bird-like  expression  on  her  face. 

"Aunt,"  she  said,  as  she  always  called  her,  "if  God  thinks  a 
thing  good  for  you,  He  will  give  it  won't  He  ? " 

"Certainly  Carmona,"  Priscilla  answered. 

"And  if  He  thinks  a  thing  bad  for  you,  He  won't  give  it, 
will  He?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Then  what  is  the  use  of  asking  Him  at  all,  if  He  always 
does  as  He  likes  ?  Is'nt  it  rather  interfering  with  His  business  ?  " 

The  curious  eyes  searched  hers  with  innocent  inquiry,  but,  as 
often  before,  Priscilla  could  not  know  how  much  was  jest  or 
how  much  was  earnestness.  She  endeavored  to  inculcate 
some  idea  of  the  reality  and  importance  of  life  into  the  girl's 
empty  mind,  but  in  vain.  She  preferred  chattering  to  her  girl 
friends,  who  now  habitually  loitered  away  their  days  in  Pris- 
cilla's  well-ordered  premises. 

A  year  passed,  and  a  son  was  born  ;  named  by  Priscilla,  Ben 
jamin  Alden.  She  dreaded  the  child  having  a  foreign  name 


Pr  is  cilia    Aid  en.  123 

and  was  rejoiced  that  his  mother  made  no  objection.  Carmona 
regarded  the  child  as  a  new  plaything,  and  as  he  grew  older 
they  would  roll  and  tumble  about  together  in  the  sun  like 
two  kittens.  The  care  of  the  baby  fell  naturally  on  Priscilla's 
shoulders,  and  she  poured  out  upon  him  all  the  affection  of 
her  famished  heart.  She  carried  him  about  in  her  long,  lean 
arms,  crooning  baby  songs  in  a  voice  which  grew  musical  only 
in  his  service.  The  child  slept  in  her  arms  at  night,  and  the 
happiest  hour  of  her  day  was  when  he  waked  her  in  the  morn 
ing,  cooing  and  gurgling  with  laughter — clutching  with  baby 
fingers  at  her  gray  wisps  of  hair. 

When  the  child  was  a  year  old,  its  father,  too,  went  to  sleep 
in  the  shadow  of  the  Huguenot  pyramids,  and  the  long,  gray 
moss  swayed  alike  over  them  all,  strangers,  in  a  strange  land. 
It  was  then  that  Priscilla  might  have  given  up,  had  not  baby 
fingers  held  her  to  life  with  powerful  persuasion.  Carmona 
crept  about  the  house  with  awe  for  a  while,  and  the  guitar 
and  piano  grew  tuneless  and  silent.  But  the  girl's  nature  re 
belled  against  continued  gravity,  and  in  a  few  months  her 
shallowness  asserted  itself,  and  she  was  as  light-hearted  as 
ever. 

All  Priscilla's  thoughts  now  centered  in  the  boy.  She 
worked  and  economized,  that  he  might  be  educated  and 
trained  as  befitted  an  Aldeii.  The  austere  eyes  of  her  Puritan 
ancestors,  she  felt,  followed  her  in  dumb  warning  as  to  the  re- 


124  St.    Augustine   Remnants. 

sponsibility  in  bringing  up  this  boy,  the  last  of  a  long  line  of 
upright  gentlemen.  How  she  watched  the  child's  nature  as  it 
unfolded.  What  the  boy's  life  should  be  she  had  not  yet  de 
termined,  but  slowly  a  resolution  formed  in  her  mind  to  send 
him  at  the  proper  time  North,  to  Harvard,  where  he  should 
be  fitted  for  some  profession.  That  he  should  be  a  loyal 
American  she  was  determined.  No  belief  in  slavery  or  South 
ern  shiftlessness  would  she  allow  to  grow  in  his  nature  —  not  a 
germ  of  it.  She  would  do  what  she  could  to  engraft  Northern 
ideas  and  principles. 

The  boy  was  dimly  aware  of  the  wealth  of  affection  this 
quiet  woman  gave  him,  and,  after  a  fashion,  returned  it.  He 
rebelled  at  times  against  the  strict  habits  she  enforced  ;  the  reg 
ular  hours  of  study,  and  the  watchful  care  as  to  his  compan 
ions.  Sometimes  when  he  was  called  from  some  boyish  game, 
they  chaffed  him.  Once  Priscilla  heard  a  boy  shout  after 
him :  "Goodie,  goodie,  go  home  to  the  Yankee." 

He  whirled  about  and  with  eyes  aflame  rushed  at  the 
taunter.  "You  speak  properly  of  my  Aunt,"  he  cried,  glar 
ing  over  his  prostrate  foe,  "and  you  apologize,  too,  before  you 
get  up,  you  puppy  !" 

His  anger  was  so  quick  to  act  and  his  fist  was  so  hard,  that 
they  soon  learned  to  suppress  their  sentiments  toward  the 
"queer  Yankee  woman." 


CHAPTER   III. 

OF  course  Carmona  would  marry  again  :  the  fact  made  it 
self  evident  after  two  months  of  widowhood.  Among 
the  number  of  young  fellows  who  now  haunted  the  house,  "a- 
courtin'  "  the  pretty  widow,  a  tall,  lithe  fellow  named  Leon 
Medici  was  most  persistent.  He  had  much  the  same  style  of 
picturesque  beauty  as  Carmona,  but  marred  it  by  flaring  col 
lars,  gaudy  waistcoats,  and  a  general  air  of  cheap  splendor. 
His  tight  trousers,  which  flared  over  his  little,  high-heeled 
boots,  were  Priscilla's  abhorrence,  but  the  good-natured  fellow, 
with  his  flashing  smile  and  seraph's  voice,  seemed  to  find  spe 
cial  favor  in  Carmona's  eyes.  He  kept  the  principal  cigar 
store  of  the  place  and  was  fairly  prosperous.  Young  Medici 
spent  most  of  his  time  under  the  orange-trees  in  the  garden, 
singing  like  an  angel  to  Carmona's  newly  strung  guitar,  and 
showered  pop-guns  and  whistles  in  generous  profusion  on 
young  Benjamin.  He  took  the  girl  buggy-driving  and  did 
his  best  to  ruin  her  digestion  by  copious  treats  of  soda-water 
and  bad  ice  cream.  Priscilla  saw  how  things  were  going,  but 
Carmona  would  only  laugh  and  toss  her  head  in  good-natured 
derision  of  any  such  possibility. 

One  morning  the  girl  came  down  late  to  breakfast,  a  look  of 
brilliant  happiness  in  her  eyes.     She  caught  Priscilla  nearly 


126  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

off  her  feet  in  a  wild  embrace,  and  then  held  up  her  left  hand, 
on  which  sparkled  a  new  amethyst  ring. 

"Leon  Medici?"  Priscilla  asked.  "Of  course,"  was  the 
ecstatic  rejoinder. 

In  the  busy  weeks  which  followed,  the  house  was  gay  with 
echoing  voices  and  stuffs  of  every  hue.  In  all  the  bustle  and 
confusion,  one  thought  haunted  Priscilla.  "Was  the  boy  to 
be  taken  away?"  She  could  not  bring  herself  to  ask  Carmona 
the  question,  but  at  night,  staring  into  the  darkness,  she  won 
dered  with  dull  pain  if  she  was  to  lose  him.  All  day  long, 
while  busy  in  a  thousand  ways,  the  thought  was  a  leaden 
weight  on  her  heart.  She  hoped  Carmona  would  speak  of  it, 
but  the  evening  before  the  wedding  came,  and  the  question 
had  not  been  asked.  She  waited  till  Carmona  came  in  from 
the  garden,  and  stood  trembling  as  they  lit  their  candles. 
Something  in  her  look  attracted  Carmona's  attention. 

"What  is  it,  Aunt?  —  you  look  as  though  you  had  seen  a 
spook." 

She  could  only  answer  with  a  pallid  smile,  as  together  they 
mounted  the  stairs.  Priscilla  kissed  the  girl  at  her  door. 

"I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy,"  she  said;  then  turned 
brusquely  and  passed  into  her  own  room. 

She  could  not  sleep  or  even  undress ;  but  sat  at  the  window 
watching,  with  unseeing  eyes,  the  moon-flowers  opening  their 
petals  to  the  moist,  night  air. 


Priscilla    Alden.  127 

At  last  she  rose  stiffly,  and  crossing  the  hall  to  Carmona's 
door  softly  opened  it.  The  Madonna  above  the  bed  stretched 
protecting  arms  in  the  dim  light.  Priscilla's  heart  seemed  to 
stop  its  beating  as  she  stood  there.  All  her  happiness  lay  in 
this  childish  creature's  will.  She  fell  on  her  knees  with  a  loud 
sob.  Carmona  woke  with  a  start. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried. 

"Oh,  Carmona,  you  won't  take  my  boy  away?  You  will 
leave  him  with  me,  won't  you?  He  loves  me  and  I'll  give  him 
all  I  have  :  all  my  care,  all  my  love  — only  leave  him." 

Carmona  sat  up  and  stared  at  her  half  frightened  and  not 
wholly  awake. 

"Take  him  from  you,  of  course  not.  I  shouldn't  know  how 
to  care  for  him.  I  can  see  him  when  I  like,  I  suppose. 
Is  that  what  is  troubling  you  ?  " 

With  careless  tenderness  she  soothed  Priscilla's  sobbing,  for 
now  the  tears  flowed  freely,  carrying  a  load  of  pain  from  her 
over-burdened  heart. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AFTER  the  merry  wedding,  the  house  settled  back  into 
something  of  its  old  quiet.  Priscilla  now  gave  herself  to 
the  one  absorbing  purpose  of  her  life ;  the  care  and  education 
of  the  boy-  There  was  no  school  save  the  parish  school  and 
the  convent,  and  she  was  puzzled  as  to  the  groundwork  for  his 
college  education,  when  she  bethought  herself  of  Dr.  Rankin. 
She  went  to  see  him  in  the  new  parsonage  under  the  palms,  to 
ask  if  he  would  teach  her  boy.  The  old  man  beamed  at  her 
over  his  spectacles,  delighted  with  the  idea,  and  so  it  was  ar 
ranged,  greatly  to  her  satisfaction. 

And  now  began  her  struggle  to  get  together  the  money  to 
pay  for  his  coming  college  expenses.  It  was  a  long  succession 
of  secret  self-denial.  She  made  all  her  own  and  his  clothes, 
and  learned  to  weave  palmetto  leaves  into  baskets.  Her  too 
luxurious  tea  was  given  up;  also  her  "Boston  Evening  Trans 
cript,"  which  had  been  the  one  connecting  link  with  the  out 
side  world.  To  save  buying  vegetables  she  planted  a  plot  in 
her  garden,  and  her  tall  figure  was  a  familiar  sight,  bending 
over  rake  or  hoe.  It  was  a  wearisome  waiting:  as  the  cents 

O 

grew  into  dollars,  which  every  Saturday  night  she  carried  to. 
the  bank. 


Priscilla    Alden.  129 

She  kept  the  boy  as  much  with  her  as  possible,  taking  long 
walks  with  him  and  telling  him  of  the  far-away  world  in  the 
North,  and  how  men  lived  earnestly  and  with  purpose  among 
those  granite  hills  where  his  grandfather  was  born.  She  kept 
before  his  eyes  the  honor  and  heroic  independence  of  those  up 
right  Puritans,  and  drew  graphic  pictures  of  what  his  life 
should  be,  when  he,  their  worthy  descendant,  should,  in  his 
turn,  take  an  active  part  in  the  stirring  life  of  the  North. 

And  the  lad's  cheeks  would  glow  and  his  eyes  kindle  as  he 
listened.  How  impatiently  he  longed  for  his  emancipation, 
and  to  what  glorious  heights  would  he  attain.  There  was  no 
limit  to  his  ambition  ;  his  fervent  nature  only  dreaded  inaction. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  first  distant  rnutterings  of  the 
coming  political  storm  were  heard.  The  anti-slavery  questions 
held  the  minds  of  the  country.  Thrice  a  week  when  the  mail 
came,  papers  were  received  full  of  bitter  editorials.  Priscilla 
knew  but  little  of  it,  —  it  hardly  reached  her.  She  saw  men 
talking  in  excited  knots  on  the  Plaza  and  knew  that  in  the 
Town  Hall  meetings  were  held  at  night,  where  violent 
harangues  were  delivered.  Benjamin  now  spent  many  of  his 
evenings  there  and  would  come  in  late,  his  eyes  shining,  but 
told  her  little  of  what  he  heard  and  saw.  She  would  smooth 
his  tossed  curls  with  gentle  touch  and  say : — 

"I  have  longed  all  these  years,  dear,  for  this  deliverance  from 
evil." 


130  St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

But  Benjamin  evidently  did  not  take  to  politics  and  cared 
but  little  to  talk  on  that  subject. 

At  last  the  storm  broke,  and  war  was  declared.  When 
Priscilla  heard  of  the  first  shot  at  her  country's  flag  on  Fort 
Sumpter,  a  thrill  of  indignation  shook  her  loyal  soul.  Troops 
were  forming  all  over  the  country:  men  were  leaving  their 
homes  and  business  to  fight  for  their  individual  ideas  of  right 
and  wrong.  Gray  coats  formed  and  drilled  on  the  Plaza  of 
St.  Augustine,  and  Confederate  flags  floated  from  every  roof. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  clamor  and  warlike  confusion,  a 
stinging  doubt  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  woman's  conscience. 
Ought  not  Benjamin,  too,  fight  for  those  Northern  principles 
which  she  had  brought  him  to  revere  ? 

She  paced  the  narrow  garden  paths,  anxious  and  undone. 
At  last  she  decided  that  the  honor  of  self-sacrifice  should  be 
his  alone  and  put  the  vexed  question  away.  The  following 
Autumn  he  would  leave  her  for  his  college  life.  The  money 
was  almost  ready  and  she  was  almost  glad,  for  the  young 
fellow  seemed  sadly  in  need  of  change  and  a  wider  field  of 
study.  Beside,  he  was  not  as  robust  and  merry  as  usual,  —  he 
was  silent  and  moody.  She  sometimes  thought  she  saw  a 
strange  regret  in  his  eyes. 

One  night  he  stayed  out  later  than  usual,  and,  becoming 
anxious,  she  went  to  the  Plaza  where  the  towns-people  con 
gregated.  At  the  end  of  the  square  opposite  a  crowd  was 


Priscitta   Alden.  131 

listening  to  the  Mayor  and  applauding  as  he  made  some  viru 
lent  remark  about  the  North.  Priscilla  saw  Carmona,  her 
husband  and  Benjamin  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  and  she 
watched  them  with  a  feeling  of  uneasiness.  Leon  was  talking 
excitedly  and  Benjamin  seemed  to  listen  with  interest.  Pris 
cilla  turned  away  and  hurried  home.  She  went  to  her  room 
but  did  not  undress  and  sat  in  the  darkness,  listening  for  Ben 
jamin's  steps. 

He  always  came  in  for  her  good -night  kiss  and  "God  keep 
you"  before  going  to  his  own  room.  An  hour  went  by,  and 
she  heard  the  gate  latch  and  the  door-key  turn  in  its  lock. 
Then  his  slow  steps  up  the  stairs.  But  on  the  landing  they 
ceased.  She  heard  him  hesitate,  take  a  few  steps  toward  her 
door,  and  then  pass  on  to  his  room.  She  wondered  at  this, 
but  concluded  he  thought  her  asleep  and  wished  not  to 
disturb  her. 

The  next  morning  she  cautioned  him  against  listening  to 
such  speeches  as  she  had  heard  the  evening  before,  but  he 
showed  the  same  lack  of  interest  in  the  subject,  and,  embracing 
her  with  more  than  his  usual  ardor,  took  his  books  and  started 
for  Dr.  Rankin's. 

He  did  not  return  at  noon,  and  twilight  deepened,  but  no 
light  step  came  up  the  path.  All  night  she  sat  waiting  for 
him,  with  a  fear  which  grew  and  stifled  her,  but  dawn  crept  into 
the  sky  and  he  had  not  come.  That  terror  crept  higher  and 


132  .St.  Augustine  Remnants. 

higher  in  her  heart,  dulling  every  other  sense.  At  last  as  the 
sun  rose,  a  disk  of  red  in  the  East,  she  went  out.  She  had 
tasted  no  food  since  the  previous  day  and  suddenly  felt  old 
and  feeble  and  tottered  slightly  as  she  walked.  By  the  Cathe 
dral  a  group  of  people  she  knew  were  talking.  They  saw  her 
coming  and  looked  with  curious  pity  at  her  quaint  figure  as 
she  approached.  She  could  hear  the  fountain's  drowsy  splash 
and  the  muffled  notes  of  the  organ  through  the  church's  open 
windows. 

"I  am  anxious  about  my  Benjamin,"  she  said  tremulously. 
"He  did  not  come  home  last  night." 

They  looked  at  one  another.  "Holy  Mary!"  a  woman 
whispered,  "she  doesn't  know." 

Then  a  stout,  black-whiskered  man,  whom  she  remembered 
as  the  violent  speaker  at  the  meeting  on  the  Plaza,  broke  into 
a  coarse  laugh. 

"Miss  Alden,  your  boy  joined  the  Confederate  army  and 
marched  away  this  morning." 

A  shrill  cry  drowned  the  notes  of  the  organ.  She  clutched 
at  the  church  door  and  fell. 


They  carried  her  home,  but  mind,  as  well  as  heart,  was 
broken.  She  still  lives,  an  old,  old  woman.  I  saw  her  last 
Winter,  a  shrunken,  old-fashioned  figure,  sitting  under  the 


Priscilta    Alden.  133 

Soldier's  Monument  on  the  Plaza,  with  the  good-natured 
Carmona,  who  humors  her  by  talking  of  Benjamin.  She  still 
guards  the  money  for  him,  whom  she  expects  to  return  in  the 
old,  shambling  coach  of  other  days. 


